Not quite a sonnet for Frank Hubany’s dverse challenge. I’m fond of iambic pentametre.
Dark falls so fast, the year spins to a close,
Clouds rush across the darkening sunset sky,
The leaves are turning, falling is the rose,
Our hours dwindling with the sun’s last sigh.
No twilight lingers where the fox and hare
Dance with the swirling of the pearly mist,
Cold teeth are baring in the evening air,
And autumn’s cheek grows cold with winter kissed.
Would that the balmy wind, so full of joy
At summer’s brink, when all the world was green,
Blow still among these tired boughs that ploy
Beneath the north wind’s bite, bitter and keen.
Yet if this autumn’s gold was never shed,
Would spring from winter’s blood ever be bled?