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