Ode to Sweet September

Spring, and the world’s astir, And everything gives praise. “Spring on the Plains” Dorothea Mackellar.

Sweet September come! We need your touch
across our winter-devastated land.
Old winter’s fist still has us in its clutch,
and withered leaves show where that cruel hand
has spread its burning frost; our trees seem dead.
The ferns are curled and brown, the grass is dry.
One tiny snowdrop sadly shakes its head
as frozen day by frozen day goes by.

A small brown bird sings love songs to his mate,
he’s full of restless energy, and flicks
from branch to branch; but who would contemplate
to nest on unreceptive leafless sticks?

September! Oh for Dorothea’s spring
with welcome rain and lovely longer days;
and spicy scents that first warm breeze can bring,
when all the world’s astir, and everything gives praise.