Autumn is the tragedy of fruit;
The theatre of bulbous bearing
And wreaths bound by lazy vines
Where all the daze swivels about
The honey-dipped cotton clouds;
The satin sky that seeds the clay
With the sagging boughs of yesterday,
The maze of trees tiring to weigh
The burden of the thunderclouds,
Plop! The waft of o’er sweet cherry-red
Slipping across the nodding grass,
Across the garden overgrown and
Towards the forgotten water-pipe.
Then the branches come to bare,
And the prankster waits his turn
To nip the buds and children’s noses
But for now sits across the garden wall
Licking moonbeams off his fingertips.
Autumn is the hero of excess,
The damsel in distress;
Autumn cracks and autumn sighs,
Autumn’s boon is autumn’s cry;
Autumn is the weight of childless homes,
Autumn waits till autumn turns cold.