AUTUMN

To rake the leaves in parks, such peaceful, calm endeavour.

To amble here and there and slowly back to waver,

like old times coming back, like long-gone far-off matters,

nostalgic like the stamps on past-enveloped letters.

I found one such, in pencil written merely,

rain smeared it was, half tattered, torn severely.

Oh letter writing times, bygone, where are you, where?

Like Rilke, to write long letters I used to care;

enough said now, adieu, November’s fall awaits.

Chestnut horses come riding from the gates.