May 3
How quickly now, has summer passed; how soon then, do the seasons turn
and Autumn is all but upon us... see, the leaves begin to burn
all gold and amber in the ailing Sun; the days are drawing in;
the damp, and chilly nights beset with creeping mists will soon begin.
A spiteful Eastern wind comes snatching at the fragile Golden cloak
that Autumn dons to hide her gauntness... wilfully, it probes and pokes
about the treetops, stripping off her modesty from shivering bones...
her cloak blown spinning, rent and tattered;
on the wind... her plundered gold.
High above the treeline, crouching darkly under quickening skies,
all swept by whimpering, fractious wind, the hollow hills, all gorse-strewn lie
so silent now... once full of laughter, where we frolicked in the spring,
tumbling in the fresh, sweet grass... it really was the sweetest thing.
But, that was then; now all is silent, but, for one sharp, piercing cry...
gazing up, I watch a Kestrel, wheeling graceful in the sky,
to hover on the wind, before her stoop... in perfect symmetry;
you said it was your favourite creature last time you were here with me.
Gazing down across the valley slumbering in the evening mist;
wood smoke curling languid, fragrant; memories of when we kissed
the last time we were here; your lips so soft, your pretty eyes so bright;
perhaps, your memories linger too... wherever you may be, tonight.
Rooks, in ones and twos, drift over; mournful calls all echoing,
as they return to woodland night-roosts, whilst the velvet dusk creeps in.
The time has come to leave the hollow hills, once more... I do miss you;
I wonder, sometimes, for a moment... do you still think of me, too?
The Sun, no more than Golden shadows lengthening in the western sky;
I turn, and walk back through wind-pillaged, rustling leaves... how deep they lie.
The torn and scattered Golden cloak of Autumn; little now remains;
the winds of change drove us apart; perhaps, we may yet, meet again.
To walk the hollow hills together... break the silence, just once more
with frolicking and laughter, and with loving... as we did before;
to watch the Kestrels hover on the wind, smell wood smoke in the air;
perhaps, next year... when Autumn dons her golden cloak...
I'll meet you there.
and Autumn is all but upon us... see, the leaves begin to burn
all gold and amber in the ailing Sun; the days are drawing in;
the damp, and chilly nights beset with creeping mists will soon begin.
A spiteful Eastern wind comes snatching at the fragile Golden cloak
that Autumn dons to hide her gauntness... wilfully, it probes and pokes
about the treetops, stripping off her modesty from shivering bones...
her cloak blown spinning, rent and tattered;
on the wind... her plundered gold.
High above the treeline, crouching darkly under quickening skies,
all swept by whimpering, fractious wind, the hollow hills, all gorse-strewn lie
so silent now... once full of laughter, where we frolicked in the spring,
tumbling in the fresh, sweet grass... it really was the sweetest thing.
But, that was then; now all is silent, but, for one sharp, piercing cry...
gazing up, I watch a Kestrel, wheeling graceful in the sky,
to hover on the wind, before her stoop... in perfect symmetry;
you said it was your favourite creature last time you were here with me.
Gazing down across the valley slumbering in the evening mist;
wood smoke curling languid, fragrant; memories of when we kissed
the last time we were here; your lips so soft, your pretty eyes so bright;
perhaps, your memories linger too... wherever you may be, tonight.
Rooks, in ones and twos, drift over; mournful calls all echoing,
as they return to woodland night-roosts, whilst the velvet dusk creeps in.
The time has come to leave the hollow hills, once more... I do miss you;
I wonder, sometimes, for a moment... do you still think of me, too?
The Sun, no more than Golden shadows lengthening in the western sky;
I turn, and walk back through wind-pillaged, rustling leaves... how deep they lie.
The torn and scattered Golden cloak of Autumn; little now remains;
the winds of change drove us apart; perhaps, we may yet, meet again.
To walk the hollow hills together... break the silence, just once more
with frolicking and laughter, and with loving... as we did before;
to watch the Kestrels hover on the wind, smell wood smoke in the air;
perhaps, next year... when Autumn dons her golden cloak...
I'll meet you there.
