Victor O'Leary

Autumn Wind

The wind sifts through
a motley of poplar leaves
but finds nothing new.

Green and gold and red
in a wild rout of colour
life, but all are dead.

page 77

With poplar leaves
our memories drift down
and each of us grieves.

Our memories,
restless leaves of love
are moved by the breeze.

Autumn Wind, you,
old scrounger, will find nothing
beautiful or true.

Only a fall
of dead, dry leaves"—otherwise
nothing"—nothing at all.