By Esme Bell
This gold afternoon tastes of crying –
A scalded throat caught in hoar-frost
Breath and last-time wistful sun. Leaves, day,
Year – all wryly clench their trembling chin,
Strong as the sky, who veils her damp eyes
In gulping cloud. Like Persephone,
They know the end: feel the pricking
Of pitiless stars and the canine
Leanness of watchful early dusk.
We walk back under this mourning,
These plaintive funeral jewels –
And we are glad, we say, to reach home.