Autumn’s Alchemist

A sonnet I wrote in 4th year university.

I’ve never felt a colder rain.

As spring’s apron carries off its newly bronzed knees,

Summer gives blistered asphalt to these crimson leaves,

Autumn’s alchemist makes his stain.

He stirs it up and paints it down,

For as a thief of colour he has much to show.

There is nothing but blank during the winter snow,

So give Jack Frost the bone-white crown.

After the months bleed viral hue

And Autumn’s alchemist has distilled his spilt blood,

The lichen bloom is sent to bed.

But this is what his potions do:

Euthanize the dull and blank, then they moisten mud,

The art of living coloured dead.



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