After Albert Glatigny
Winter is on us, but not yet the snow;
The hills are etched on the horizon, bare,
The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,
With meagre clouds that shudder as they go;
One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow
Like some new butterfly, unclassed and rare;
Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where
The black trees seem to shiver as you go.
Beyond lie church and steeple, and their old
And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer —
A sharper gust would shock them from their hold.
Yet up that path, in Maytime of the year,
And past that dreary ruined tower we strolled
To pluck wild strawberries with summer cheer!