A Window on the Changing Seasons 

Endless dark rainstorms hammer it down,
blustery winds batter and roar,
soaking and chilling all through.
No bright whiteness of winter snowfall,
or sparkling patterns of frost,
to cheer the oppressive gloom.
Waterlogged mud where a garden grew,
plants drowning as their roots rot,
leave stark black twigs of the dead.
 
Brief’s the beauty of seasons of change,
spring blossom rapidly falls,
in soft flurries of pastel.
Hidden among the fresh dappled leaves,
chicks with mottled fluff emerge,
fluttering short wings to be fed.
Later dark skies are splashed pink and green,
with auroral rippling light,
of violent space weather storms.
 
Summer hits as a fiery furnace,
of exhausting searing heat,
with no respite day or night.
Apples cook on the trees as they grow,
grass crumbles to brown dry dust,
while peat moorland wildfires rage.
Wide cracks appearing in parched baked earth,
skin burning from sun’s bright rays,
send all scurrying for shade.
 
Traditional roses are just memories,
supplanted by tougher blooms,
more suited to climate’s change.
Trees are increasingly grey bare bones,
failing with weather extremes,
which dashing lithe squirrels haunt.
Autumn’s too warm for vivid flame hues,
leaves soon curl and fade to brown,
fledglings on ripe berries feast.
 
While seeds and young safely rest till spring,
sheltered from wild winter storms,
the cycle begins once more.
I sadly watch as plants I’ve cared for,
lose their regular rhythm,
of growth and allied weather.
As seasons change in nature’s response,
to excesses of people,
can our garden refuge survive?