An untitled sonnet on the subject of Autumn
Last night he arrived with mysterious force
Into my garden, woke me with a sigh,
Breathed to me as he rustled through the grass,
Though his breath was honey, the year must die.
He coughed and whirled the summer parasol,
Stirring up leaves as he cleared his throat,
And from a night corner he seemed to fill
The dark with elegies of horn and flute.
He whispered to me of times long gone,
As I dozed and dreamed in my linen lair,
That I must lose all I depend upon,
Get used again to this chill in the air.
We met as brothers who had been estranged,
I am grown older, but he has not changed.
© James Nash 2009