Autumn by John Clare

 AUTUMN by John Clare (1793-1864) 
     A romantic  poet who loved the natural world, and loved to write about the details he saw all around him.......

 The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,

 On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,

 The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;

 Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

 The ground parched and cracked ...........

 is like overbaked bread,

 The greensward all wracked is, 

 bents dried up and dead.

 The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,

 And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

 Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,

 And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;

 Burning hot is the ground, 

  liquid gold is the air;

 Whoever looks round ....................

 sees Eternity there.

 PHOTOGRAPHS 2019