When autumn (Edit 3)

[Wjames]

[sup]1st edit.[/sup]
When autumn comes
the golden up-lit broad lands and leafy lanes,
bejewelled with berries that have sucked the last
daylight saved hour from the sun,  dry out. I don't really get anything from the daylight savings time thing.
The remains, the empty husks, are laid to waste I don't think the second "the" is needed.
by sharp edged winds that pluck
the plumped out leisure and leave behind
the wrinkled lines of weathered haste.

Shrivelled back into a semi dormant state, swallowed
by shadowy degrees of a granite set face, I don't think you need the comma here.
that clocks the demarcation of daisy-chained
summer grace into bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time - twists
of clouded memories, that bleed vaguely grey
into the clear blue of spring fed eyes. This stanza's really really wordy, and there's just way too much going on for it to be one sentence imo.

When you see a winter solstice, do not ask why
it blazes and burns at the paler shades;
this is the stored up harvest,                                                                                                                                             
trampled, crushed and aged. I really like this image.
It rages against the wasteful decay and thrusts
the languid sap up for the push for spring days,
aiming to make just one more summer of hay.
 
 
 

original draft.

When autumn comes
the golden up-lit broad lands and leafy lanes,
bejewelled with berries that have sucked the last
daylight saved hour from the sun, turn and dry out.
Husks of their former glory, laid to waste
by sharp edged winds that pluck
the plumped out leisure and leave behind
the wrinkled lines of weathered haste.

Shrivelled back into a semi dormant state, swallowed
by the shadowy degrees of a granite face,
that clocks the demarcation of daisy-chained
summer of grace, into bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time; twists
of clouded memories, that bleed vaguely grey
into the clear blue eyes of a spring sky.

When you see a winter solstice, do not ask why
it blazes and cuts through the paler shades;
this is the stored up harvest,
trampled, crushed and aged.
It rages against the wasteful decay and thrusts
new shoots through the push of spring
to make one more summer of hay.
 
 
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I really liked the poem with the exception of the second stanza, I think you could get away with removing it entirely.