Autumnal Elegy

Image by Coba


AUTUMNAL ELEGY

There is no rhythm in this fog.
My God, how it stills the waters!
A tragic siren walks the beat.

The chestnut had its beauty raped
And the living shade crouches in a bush.
Trees hang their leaves as if on gallows.

The air shivers in wordless drizzle,
Solemn soughing.
Now a magnetic horn hoots for the lost.

Everything seems unattached; feelings grope for masks,
Seeking a tongue to shape anew the ancient heart.

No cat's-cradle stretches together little fingers,
Triggering that old wound, that forgotten joy.
Even the roots need a map to remind the child
Of simple cross-weaves, time, and the nursery rhyme.

It's bare, and on the lone stalker's ear
The dogs' collars clang through the fence slats.
Incantation hides deep in the beasts' throats.
An infinite night draws a pall across living rooms.

The patterns faded -- Where are they now?
There is no rhythm in this fog.
The gray siren; the still, still waters.

David Gilmour