This Autumn

Strong winds have ripped the smoke tree’s russet gown,

Yet with glistening berries still the hedgerows drip.

In skies of arctic blue pale suns slip down,

As iceberg moons  the season’s balance tip.

Winter flint now gives the evening air its edge,

In his cottage an old scholar weeps alone,

Weighs the beauty of a disregarded pledge

Against summers which are forever gone.

Through the elderwood and bright hazel groves,

Snowflake patterns on her coat of Nordic red,

A pilgrim sings a love song as she moves,

Along a path  she once in bitter  silence fled.

 

As windblown leaves shall  be our shrivelled fears,

This  autumn is not of one, but many, years