There’s no rhyme or reason for the changing of the season as larks loom large in autumn’s garden prowling upon the gnarled branches close to those of which you fell
No better time come spring to plunge into the closed thicket and beat the brush for a hunting repast for those rich enough to shoot game becoming one with the undergrowth and the Erl-King of reminiscence
Now, we are running with beasts whilst money makes time and the summer propels us into hotter climbs the languishing sun punishes places without shade as your skin feels the tough centigrade
Interesting notions stroke your cortex as the nights darken and dim when light becomes as rare as a penguin’s wing
A long, cold, hard winter it has been, and you’ve felt them all, but still you can’t seem to become used to it all
By Samuel Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 