The Experts, in remote wisdom, declare-
This autumn is the finest show
of colours since The Records first began.
I, with not a little fear,
...
it's too vulnerable, too breakable
to carry the weight of
the waters running through
these seven hundred and thirty-
...
I will be more... clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep... the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's wit and it will out at the casement; shut that and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. (As You Like It, IV, i))
Falling In Leaves
The Experts, in remote wisdom, declare-
This autumn is the finest show
of colours since The Records first began.
I, with not a little fear,
observe (as leaks a burnt vermillion tinge,
bled from my tumbling heart,
to paint the world) the ivy, oak and cedar
are red in love as me.
I drift with trepidation – like a leaf,
seduced by gravity, makes from
a fast-disrobing tree – from quiet oneness
towards the flowing waters of
this seminal embrace. I cannot buck
its vertiginous pull;
It is beyond me, is entrenched within me.
Oh, how it scares the heart!
Are my gifts enough? They may not promise
like the tender, budding flower,
or shine with glory as a summer sun.
My petals are the fingers of
a hand that will enfold his, tease his many-
coloured strands of beard.
My only glory will unravel with
the seasons’ shedding skins.
We are not Spring lovers; not so prosaic
to frolic in dewy, verdant
meadows, or frisk like April lambs among
the banks of fleeting daffodils.
What we can do is crackle like the kindling
on a hearth; he showers me
in fallen leaves, and like a fur I will
cover him from the rains.