.
Autumn leaves fall endlessly, red and gold,
beneath the grey of tomorrow’s dawn;
carried onward , earthward, by the wind,
no longer wrapped in summer haze.
Forever cloaked in hushed seclusion;
in every leaf a dream of yesterday
that grew, within the lushness of youth,
to form a mantle, donned with age.
The price is paid for memories of spring,
after endless, sun-drenched hours of summer,
when autumn gently taps upon the door,
heralding the arrival of winter’s cruel sport.
When autumn’s gold shades into dying brown,
the skies sob rivulets of sham tears.
yet they do not die, those millions,
but simply sleep, like nuptial virgins,
with Winter their long-awaited lover,
calling once again for the fierce caress
that girds their youthful limbs with fire,
forging echoes of fecund, pregnant youth.
© 1978 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh
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