How hard it is to tell in words
The feeling Autumn brings
Of sweet with bitter, shade with sun,
Inside the heart of things.
Bright rockets for a moment break
The darkness overhead:
Bright poppies, as the days grow chill,
Commemorate the dead.
The gold and crimson in the leaves
Is part of their decay,
And then how shapely stand the trees
When leaves are stripped away.
A grain of wheat, as Jesus knew,
Must fall upon the earth,
And there disintegrate to bring
Next season’s crop to birth.
Perhaps God knows what people feel
Who gather round the blaze
When rubbish blossoms into flame
On short, November days.
Elizabeth Cosnett (b 1936)
Words © Copyright 2001 Stainer & Bell Ltd