Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Gold and scarlet painted leaves
hang delicately on the trees.
They fall and float upon the breeze,
the Zephyr's captive slaves.
Then dance and twirl upon the earth
crunch underfoot, erstwhile the turf
grows cold and damp; the shadows long,
til Summer's faded rose is gone.
Like embers in a fun'ral pyre
they leap and dance amidst the fire.
Like secrets hid: my heart's desire,
they brittle, live no more.
Wet and cold, lain dead they moulder,
in trenches, drains, and gutters deep,
and decompose, the worms to feed -
slain soldiers in a heap.
We all are leaves, Our season's now,
so laugh and grow upon the bough:
for someday soon, I know not when,
the light will fade again.
(C) David Lord Cowell, March 2013.