1. From the hill in autumn © Bruce Goodman 1 September 2014 |
It’s lovely from the hill today. A flock of autumn crows are twirling near And floating-slow like burnt paper in the air, And vines blood and yellow on a black butterfly Die slowly as the cold comes In leaden droplets. Far away, hills turn, hand in hand, As giant square-dancers turn, happy in a warmer land. The purple winds call old, sad melodies. When fifty years limp by and I’m bones and cold With yellow skin a tattered leaf, They’ll say, though his bones be straight, His heart was bent and cried Like a child on its lonely walks. It’s autumn, and the scarecrowed trees shed gold. |