Sunday Poetry – John Clare

johnclare

Much of Australia is experiencing extreme heat this weekend but in Melbourne, it’s cool & grey. John Clare’s poem, Autumn, conjures up images of the season that, hopefully, isn’t too far away.

I was also reminded of John Clare by the latest episode of In Our Time on BBC radio. You can listen to it here or download the podcast from wherever you get your podcasts.

The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

2 thoughts on “Sunday Poetry – John Clare

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