Remind me of the summer sifted, gone,
Of furrowed leaf-falls, only sailing once:
Remind me, that we live in silent autumn
In a dead month.
I’ll remember how the bonfire evenings threw
Great haze behind, great fire in high tower:
Snap fire, the groaning wood and night aglow
In the night power.
Speak of evenings, fire-worked and swept in awe,
Of promises and knitted scarves fast kept;
Or, how the trees were held in auburn fire,
And my heart wept.
It’s getting to that time of year where odes sort of happen. Autumn occurs. Trees go through extreme mood swings, the weather doesn’t know if it’s coming or going; misty mornings and insidious nightfalls. We’re in the hangover of summer. We need to be put to bed.
All poetry written in autumn, I am afraid, will sort of be a footnote to Keats. That goes without saying. I’ve worked a sapphic ode with a few half-rhymes together. Sentimental, fond, a bit foolish. But I rather like it.