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Butterflies

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Terry Trainor
Terry Trainor

The trees are dressed in their richest autumn colors, casting glorious landscapes. Walking through the rustling leaves feels like treading on desert sand. It is a tranquil season to enjoy the splendor of green fields and clear air on pleasant autumn days. As the winds wrap up the harvest, the last swallows fly south for winter and new birds like crows and woodcocks arrive to nest and sing, while a few butterflies still take advantage of late meadow flowers on warm walls in the sun's glow.

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This is the season of forest splendour and trees wear their finest robes, They burst forth into all their richest and warmest colours of the year, And cast glory on landscapes that is unrivalled across an autumn land, Wind blows many tinted leaves along gently, it looks like desert sand. To tread on their rustling masses in still glades, the season’s language, A season to still walk among wood ways to enjoy tranquil splendour, Of green fields, feeling freshness of clear clean air on autumnal days, Thankful for all the good and beauty while walking pretty pathways. The autumn winds up its accounts of harvests and outside pleasures, The last swallows pack their bags and fly off to places far, far away, A hooded crow comes to share winter and a woodcock comes along, They build their nests in warm places to the sound of a robin’s song. A few last little butterflies still hover over flowers in sweet meadows, Mostly small white ones catching on a breath of air like tiny little kites Some have begun to feel the cooler air and they settle on a warm wall, Basking in the glow of a noon sun, they have no cares, no cares at all.

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Butterflies

  • 1. This is the season of forest splendour and trees wear their finest robes, They burst forth into all their richest and warmest colours of the year, And cast glory on landscapes that is unrivalled across an autumn land, Wind blows many tinted leaves along gently, it looks like desert sand. To tread on their rustling masses in still glades, the season’s language, A season to still walk among wood ways to enjoy tranquil splendour, Of green fields, feeling freshness of clear clean air on autumnal days, Thankful for all the good and beauty while walking pretty pathways. The autumn winds up its accounts of harvests and outside pleasures, The last swallows pack their bags and fly off to places far, far away, A hooded crow comes to share winter and a woodcock comes along, They build their nests in warm places to the sound of a robin’s song. A few last little butterflies still hover over flowers in sweet meadows, Mostly small white ones catching on a breath of air like tiny little kites Some have begun to feel the cooler air and they settle on a warm wall, Basking in the glow of a noon sun, they have no cares, no cares at all.