Poems and Poetry

Autumn | A Poem by Marie MacSweeney

September creeps along anarchic grass.
In our garden plum trees bend
to the earth, each branch
a frail skirmish
across briars and barriers,
naked warriors
accepting no natural defeat.

It is autumn
and we have come
to gather in the fruit,
eat in our orchard,
think God is good,
but there are wasps and worms
feeding, and we have our own wars.

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