The Final Autumn

Like some monolith to a youthful Endymion
the slate-grey sky did not permit
the epitaph etched by strato-cirrus
to be read.

Stark trees, wind-shorn of frivolous foliage,
did cold penitence for their summer follies:
a circadian confession to ensure
vernal resurrection.

Restless, colourless waves of November
marched mindlessly to assault the strand,
implacably expunging the bare and carefree footprints
of Summer.

* * *
His perusal was fond; a lover's caress
fraught with the echoes of past joy.
His eyes drank deeply of autumn's tumultuous brew;
but his heart savoured past vintages.

The echoes swirled in aural and visual
kaleidoscopic patterns:
chimerical memories vying for recognition.

A child, he saw, wading through sun-warmed tidal pools,
spying drifts of mermaids hair,
entranced by magical shells
exploding in profusion about his joyous toes.

Before his eyes the child became a man,
guiding another child
through the mysteries of summer,
through the wonder of the seasons.

A young man, he saw, puzzled and confused,
searching barren streets
devoid of the companionship
of light and laughter.

* * *
The young man, changing, now more assured;
older, but certain in his steps,
sure of his direction
towards some unknown goal.

The old man watched himself, fearful,
loath to follow the path
that led inexorably
beyond his ken.

* * *
His return was slow, a painful trudge.
His wife, younger, bore his Celtic melancholia
with the ease of loving practice.
Bringing his Bushmills', she told him,
now warmed by the fire, that the children
would be home for Christmas.

* * *