An Autumn Elegy Poem by Martin Ward

An Autumn Elegy

Turn the season,
golden morn.
Of fragrant mists,
where woodland scents
from under-foot,
infuse the moment
with crushed content.

When other muses
dance in Spring,
or laze beneath
an azure sky,
I feast upon
this ripened time,
intoxicated by your form.

Banquet of all seasons,
I take my fill.
Russet-red
before my eyes,
the pallet-mix
of nature's hand.

Geese squadrons
wedge the door
that lets in winter.

She does not die;
she does not sleep:
this adolescent,
mixed-up child.

Wise as an old man
with stubble chin,
that guards the concrete
smoothness held within.

You beg me
to Remember, Remember;
as if some melancholy
should hold me still.

You are no past lover,
nor transitory soul.
You do not wait
or call me to you.
I gaze as you turn
towards me once again.