The leaves of yet another year collect
among the chimney pots. An early mist,
and out beyond the town a smouldering
of fields, redwing and fieldfare flying in,
cold laughter from the skies, notes on a wire,
woodsmoke on the air, our summer’s pyre.
Not long before November’s darkness comes
to rub out day at half past four and bring
a dulling down of blood, a loss of glare,
a quiet motley to the air this day to end,
this quiet truth to tell, And a soft rain
to wish our sorrows well.