| There's
a dark silver sadness in the sky. |
| The
weakened light more subtle now |
| on
last wet leaves |
| left
hanging |
| before
their final, |
| quiet |
| drop |
| toward
fate. |
|
| Here, |
| a
golden leaf dances |
| shortly, |
|
|
| stopped |
| by
a thorn in the barberry hedge, |
| where
it will spend its season. |
|
| And
all is, |
| as
after a single singer's mournful song, |
| just
quiet. |
|
| |
| |
| M.L.
Playfair |
| October
2001 |
|
|
