The chestnuts are changing colour at last
on that astonishing tree down the street,
and if I sound glad then maybe I am,
but some of that gladness is bittersweet
For that was the only summer I've missed;
foretelling the flattening of seasons to come,
when light through the glass and utility bills
conjure up bluebells and songs we once sung.
But my particular summer's long past.
Crepuscular shades and dry rusted leaves
and intimations of winter's cold blast,
combine with decline that's gathering speed;
and caught by surprise by this sudden decay,
I'd like to be fixed; I'd like some more time,
and grope for the slippery reins that might change
this constantly forming jigsaw of life,
here at the edge of my falling away,
here where I managed to get so much wrong:
this life, where beauty and wonder assail
so sweetly, so close to the end of the song.
220819
The coming winter, the autumn past Did not seem like the last Sixty-some years of even flow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don’t see my comments here. Are they somehow coming through This one, so sad. Reality though.