The Autumn

Oh time. What clouds are these which gather round,
And with a trembling touch bestow a chill?
What wounded leaves are these which now surround
This fading blossom of surrendered will?
I hear the autumn calling from outside,
His old-man's voice a cello on the wind,
A lonely bachelor come to claim his bride,
Outside my window, peering now within.
Ah autumn, how akin are you and I,
Like memories of a day now long forgone
Of green and roses, smiles and ardent eyes;
And I, like you, must make my bed alone,
And sit awaiting winter's mourning breath
To sound the cadence of a lingering death.

George Chadderdon © 1994