Autumn

The Dunnock scuttles in the undergrowth,
escapes the menace of my steady gaze.
September sun now sets the leaves ablaze,
aware of passing time and yet still loath
to ready growth for coming Winter days.

The season lingers with a promise late
of still more heps and flowers on the rose
and fruit or blossom of all plants like those,
which breeze and nightfrost cannot yet abate.

But soon the coloured leaves will fast outdo
the petals of all plants that Summer knew
which until now held sway and soon outgrew
their vernal foliage bright with morning dew.

40

Do we mourn our pretty flowers?
Must we grieve for them all hours?
As soon as Death our faces pales,
fresher flowers will follow ours.

While Zephyrus in anger throws
the petals down for some of those,
how fine the song of Nightingales
in fervent honour of the Rose.