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Invitation to the Ball
by
Carol Witherow

She robes herself in aureate hues,

Mellowed gold and honeyed amber;

A russet cape and ruby garlands,

Shot through with some viridian.

A wanton at Dame Nature’s Court

She dresses for the Ball:

Hazel with Downy Birch, perhaps,

Copper Beech and coral Aspen,

A dash of Cherry and some Damson,

The whole set off with verdant leaves.

Resplendent in her vibrant palette

She is the Harvest Fall.

Voluptuous, she lays a table

Yielding fruit at our desire;

She is ablaze in all her glory,

Proudly bearing her profusion.

She scorns the pallid arid seasons;

She is monarch over all.

And when she’s bled out, dried and dusted,

Her verdure cracked and crushed,

When only ghostly music’s heard

The morning after autumn flush;

She’ll lie there thinking, seedlings squirreling:

Wasn’t it a ball?

© Carol Witherow 2007

Carol recently came to writing after careers as a teacher (Primary and Secondary), actress and full-time mother. She's Irish but has lived in the UK since 1991. Carol had the odd short story/article published, but only started writing seriously in the past year. Poetry is new for her.

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