Your month. Lingering heat. No sound
from the harsh world—nothing to tear
the slumberous air but cawing, at times.
Stillness, except where a leaf hangs high
from a spider-thread. And nearer than the mossed floor,
though more distant too than a Baghdad pavement
all over blood, that russet heath
with three picnickers under a low sun.
Even your smile then spoke a bruised mind,
still I could feel you'd found there, not joy, no—
October in your heart from a boy—, but something
like calm. As now I might do, only
the thought of you, this livid leaf, jigs on.
A footfall on the litter behind me? So light—
not the ogre Care's then, for all these thistle thoughts.
And why think, turning, to see you here? Well,
it was at this faded time of the season's fag-end,
in the calm before what must come, I found
pity rooting where fondness couldn't,
and might have asked what I'd ask you now.
The day turns its page. How to read it, light curdling,
life so laconic! A patter of mast?
updated by @americymru: 11/28/17 04:29:15PM