Like a shadow Winter cleaves to Autumn
when nights lengthen and chill winds blow.
It strips the tawny raiment from the trees
into the furrows of the field in scattered leaves of bronze and gold.
Silhouettes stand bereft; barren, naked, cold.
In these melancholy thoughts of the year’s demise
I chase the shadow of the sun.
I find it lies beneath a flowery bank of foxglove bells
and in the remembered drowsy murmur of the bees
and in those memories warm with the scent of wild sage and sorrel I find a trace, a whisper, a fugitive gleam of Spring … .