The Last Leaf of autumn’s last lease
Fell under leaden skies
Weeping winter over the lanes of Landser.
Torn from its twig
It rode the wind a while
Upon brittle-brown Sycamore wings
To ‘land’ in a puddle
Of soft, yellow-orange lamplight.
No mulching for the forest floor
Or succour for the pulsing shoots of spring,
Not even the faintest memory
To remain
Of that lush, green former glory;
But the ignominy
Of being drowned,
Then ground
To little more than nothing
Between tyre-tread and tarmac.
Gone,
But in these few lines,
Written
Upon this shroud-white, memorial
To its family felled and fallen:
Not forgotten.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem