Philippe Robert, “Feuilles d’automne”
Yes, the leaves die as they go golden,
yet
this does not speak to me of death,
as hand-in-hand we walk below bowers
which colour
the world’s bright defiant grave.
Tombs carry promise, still dormant – a longing –
life
hidden by these shrouds of weak foresight –
then, like colour transfigured in a shower of gold,
soon to sing,
“Death, where’s your victory? Your sting?”
Teacher, writer, blogger, husband, father, Christian. Living in Wyndham in Melbourne's west, on the land of the Kulin Nation. Searching for words to console and feed hearts and souls.
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