To the tide
of autumn
and sandy summer gone;
and to lonely home
amongst twig-footed crows
now that the summer birds of romance
are all gone;
and to the autumnal orange sun
bounced by god or gravity
against the world,
the lonely wall;
and to the ebb
of summer
and to leaves -
to each
now they are unique
and old and fay and fey;
to every single crumple,
fall
and swansong rot -
to the collective show
that shoos the summer
birds of romance out
but invites the
winter birds of romance back:
to geese tossed
like snowballs
into local ponds;
and to mists and fogs
upon the fields and lakes -
and to mists and fogs
upon the road beyond the robin on the gates -
to the tide
of autumn
and to homeliness
amongst the
winter birds of romance
now they are home.
-
October 2006