The southing sad and setting sun
Deep dipping burnished twilight gold
Now flecked with rust and fading dun
As the glimmering year grows cold
Last brimming days of tide and drift
The rosy sea at moonless ebb
The empty sands a vacant shrift
Soon frost will silver winter’s web

The supple leaves that once soft sighed
With youthful whispers in the spring
Now rustle restless hard and dry
Like sad old men left chattering
On branches heaving in the breeze
Their crusty age torn down by winds
Their tumbling fall a listless ease
The mulching of their mould begins.