Mervyn Linford - Poet   


Forever Autumn.

The robin sings a
Season of its own:
 a sad refrain
Belonging yet apart.

I scarce can say
Exactly what is wrong:
Why spring is edged
 with ice -

Why summer's throng
Of foliage and flower
Stills turns the eye
Unerringly from light.

How thin this song
 and sad:
How drawn it seems
From cold-condensing air -

As if a strand as
Tenuous as silk
To float and fade
Through gossamers
 of mist.