In Autumn hereabouts the grass is red

In Autumn hereabouts the grass is red
And trees, their summer raiment shed,
Stand in pools of their own gold;
While russet bracken long since dead
Lies along the mountain’s fold

Green colours only where the spruce,
Awaiting harvest and another use,
Stands planted neatly in its forest square.
A contrast to the randomness
Of nature everywhere.

Then endlessly it seems, the rain
Tap, tap, taps upon the pane.
The days are short, and long the night,
But in the hearth the fire is bright
And now is time to play and sing
Content that after Winter.. Spring.

The long rough hill grass dies in the winter and in a sunny Autumn, in particular the long grass turns quite red. Later as winter progresses the redness goes and it turns light brown.

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