If April is the cruellest month
September is the saddest.
The pulsing beat of rain and sun
Has done it's work, has yielded
Corn and left the fields for stubble:
And now the ambient circling
Of the sun slips to the south.
Greying of skies and turning
Of leaves from green to red to gold:
Rich beauty in their dying;
Low now in the Eastern sky
A misted sun against an azure sky
Defines how hope and sorrow sit
In softened ambiguity: for now
In what is lost is gained
A gift more precious in its parting.
