DAYS OF AUTUMN 179 



cast feather of a chaffinch swung on a 

 spider's line encircling the trunk waved 

 a gentle farewell. Where the shafts of 

 sunlight lingered among the brambles their 

 leaves were fired a lucent green; autumn 

 is kind to the bramble, touching a leaf 

 here and there only with blood red 

 splash. 



I waited under the oak, unable to leave 

 the warmth and tranquillity. A cloud hid 

 the sun. I wanted to see the beauteous 

 light come again through the rifted clouds, 

 to see the staining of the bramble leaves. 

 Once more the sun gilded the bare 

 branches, colouring the red berries of the 

 holly that would feed the thrushes in 

 winter, and lacquering the beech trees till 

 they seemed like the tawny beards of 

 vikings. 



Somewhere in the wood was the ghost 

 of Proserpine returned to see how her 

 children were faring under the leaves were 

 the seeds that would bring forth bloom 



