I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Fall spread across the land like sand in breeze,
rolling smooth as stones along the stream –
but cold, like fingers, sneaking down the spine,
and dark, and darker, still –
I beg reprieve.
And find I none but darkening, and chill,
and smell of leaves departing, dank from dew,
whose latent lace soon blooms a finger’s trace
across the pane I stare at, near to giving up.
The Western wind creeps underneath my door.
And you are far away this time –
though maybe no more distant since
that first departure past;
but still, that smallest warmth from me is robbed:
knowing that you are close, and also sad.
And also thinking of the cold, and hollow world.
I watch it waning, barren now within;
And less I speak, not knowing who
would understand
the creeping of the dull pain, day by day,
growing like dying piles beside the trunks
of tired trees –
so many aching trees here, were I but one,
to die beside my comrades: leaf by leaf.
I think on us, as trees, with clenching soul –
yes, I believe your dusk, as here,
brings longing still,
but still your absence renders me unwhole.
Though, I suppose, it really matters not –
for all the months bygone and future years,
each gaze I cast horizon-bound towards thee
meets each with tired, solemn shepherd’s call:
oh, misfortune – Waste and empty is the Sea.