(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 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.