Poem of Autumn
It is getting dark…
I feel the cold;
The snuffing out of the light
By a prim butler in long tails
And a white glove.
A long, wooden pole
With a burnished cup, that chokes the last flame
Of Summer,
from a gas-lit lamp.
It is night now,
All souls to their bedposts,
Time for most to go to sleep,
And some, to quietly weep in their pillows.
John Tansey 9.20.7
Copyright ©2007 John Thomas Tansey
John Tansey
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