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71. From the hill in autumn © 2 April 2018 |
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(The lovely, late Cynthia Jobin – whom a number of you would have encountered - used to re-post earlier posted poems when she had no time or the muse had vanished. What is good for the goose is good for the gander. I shall do the same! This poem – From the hill in autumn – was the first poem I posted, way back. To be honest, I wrote it when I was 18. It’s autumn here now – so it’s appropriate enough. I am 68 so the poem is 50 years old! AND, according to my youthful 18-year old mind, I’m apparently meant to be dead by now!) 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. |