Frances Browner – Colour Me Autumn

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Three
November- December 2025

Colour Me Autumn, poems by Frances Browner.

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Colour Me Autumn

In Anthony’s diner on Long Island,
the waitress said I was an autumn
that I must never wear blue
only the hues of fall – plum,
pink, orange, tan, and pumpkin.

Not white, she eyed my pristine shirt,
it will drain the warmth from my skin.
In the palm of her hand, she cupped
my chin. Your palette should
be the foliage that covers the land.

Nor black, she frowned at my cravat,
near the face. Slacks were ok, they
were far enough away. Only winters
with sallow skin and raven hair
can wear colors of hope or despair.

Now I wear green for leaves that fall
Amber, sienna, brown that carpet the
ground. Gold, vermillion, rust capture
sunset at dusk. Crimson, copper, cream
to crown the scene.

The same for make-up, jewellery, lip gloss
And shades I paint my house. Observing
Feng Shei – yellow welcomes me in, coral
enhances appetite, sea mist soothes sleep
at night. Autumn fires on me burn bright.

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Curlew Capers

In the Callows on the shores of the Shannon,
Between Loughs Derg and Lough Rea,
Our barge treads these water meadows
Skirting alongside the reeds.

We hear the cry of the curlew
Drumming snipe and corncrake
Warbling sedge and grasshopper
The rare quail and spotted crake.

Your strong arms steer our voyage
Back muscles tense and dance,
As we wade back and forth on the river
In the throes of an autumn romance.

At night, we moor in Shannon Harbour
Stop for pints, music, and some song
Then cruise on up through Banagher
Watch for the curved bill, slender and long.

The mottled brown plumage of the corliu
The messenger, from courir to run.
First recorded in Langland’s Piers Plowman,
frequented wetlands, fed on soft ground.

I return now and berth at the marina
Try to recall memories from long ago
When the river was alive with birdsong
And the curlew’s call didn’t sound so alone.

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Bombycilla-Garrulus

We couldn’t stand the noise, the bombs
and gun smoke, the urge to choke.
The yellow-headed bird in charge of it all.
Children’s cries, women’s sighs, the
pungent stench of it all, where buildings
once tall, now fall, and fall.

We took flight o’er the sea, continents
free. Towns and cities, forests of trees.
Mountains, hills, snow-crested peaks,
rivers, lakes, glaciers, fjords.
Archipelagos and places nobody goes.

We came at last to a land where berries
grow. Where the air is clean, grass is green,
bushes are luscious. Where natives greet,
How’s it goin’? without even knowing where
we’ve been or where we’re going. Where
puddles are plentiful, places to meet.

They call us waxwings, and silk tails
because of our red and yellow tips. Snap
photographs, write poems, record us,
make lists, while we happily sit and sip.
Gather by the roadside to drink and chat,
with no fear of screeching buses.
We’ve seen much worse than that.

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© Frances Browner

Frances Browner resides in Greystones, County Wicklow. A creative writing tutor with Greystones Cancer Support Centre, she is active in local arts and received Person of the Year for culture in 2022. Her fiction/memoirs have been published, shortlisted, and broadcast on RTE’s Living Word, Sunday Miscellany, and for the Francis MacManus short story award. Poems featured online and in anthologies and literary journals. A haiku, ‘Lockdown’, won 1st prize in Dun Laoghaire Local Voices, 2020, and short story, ‘Little Palm Tree’, was highly commended for the Costa Book Awards, 2020. A compilation, You Should’ve Been Someone, was released in 2015. Micro poetry chapbook, SELFIES, was part of Ghost City Press, Syracuse, Summer Series 2019. A collection, Roots & Wings (2019), and debut novel, A Bronx Summer (2023), were both launched by Revival Press, an imprint of The Limerick Writers’ Centre.