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--chosen-work--
In Glen Howe Park
Kicking the varied leaves out of their drifted piles
Kicking the varied leaves
Thick padded leaves of oak beech
Many others- elms still struggle here
But silently
Last month a storm of long-awaited rain
Presaged long violence of hail
So that the leaves are compost
Churning this wet beech mast
Jam again a child
In dusty lanes and innocence
And Sunday shoes
Remembered voices calling in the lane
Last month a storm of long-awaited rain
Presaged long violence of hail
So that the leaves are compost
Churning this wet beech mast
am again a child
ln dusty lanes and innocence
And Sunday shoes
Remembered voices calling in the lane
On gaslit evenings
Pressing leaves in books
To know the lore of what is hazel, ash
And I reflect
That leaves are not the only thing
Which dried, remote from nature
Treasured in the dark
Will turn to dust.
Summer's leaves have drifted down the stream
And love is but a pale face
In a pale dream