TheBanyanTree: Falling leaves

[John Bailey]

Saturday October 4, 2003

FALLING LEAVES

I worked myself into a fine, poetic melancholy this morning, sitting in the 
window, watching the leaves fall. It was a good, rich melancholy, one in 
which words whisper just beyond the point of recognition, forming 
part-heard rhythms and jumbled phrases in the backwaters of the mind. If 
only I could hear them with more clarity and write them down as if taking 
dication. Think of the work it would save! Or perhaps not. There'd be 
little pleasure in poetry if it came winging, effortless, out of a melancholy.

"Oh, there's nothing quite so satisfying as a good autumn melancholy, 
Harry," I said to the tightly curled ball of cat lodged close by my study 
radiator. "You can make a melancholy like this last all day if you've a mind."

And then the neighbour's dog came along to piss on my front lawn. Again.

Melancholy gone, I grabbed my water squirter and dashed out to see the 
darned creature off.  Too late.  Another spot on the grass which will 
darken to a malevolent green and then die over-winter, requiring seeding. 
The neighbour scurried indoors to hide away from me. More leaves fell from 
the oak tree.

I came back indoors and into the kitchen to pour a mug of fresh coffee. 
Harry Cat came poddling along, not seeking a snack because even his tummy 
has a limited capactity. All he wanted was a little comfort and a bit of 
lap on which to sit for a while.

"Hey ho, Harry," I said. "No great shakes, really. I just wish people would 
be a little more respectful of other folks' space, is all."

Harry gave a big sigh, curled up tight as tight, and we settled into a 
quiet nap in my cosy corner.


         LATE LEAVES

         The leaves are falling; so am I;
         The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
                 So have I too.
         Scarcely on any bough is heard
         Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
                 The whole wood through.

         Winter may come: he brings but nigher
         His circle, yearly narrowing, to the fire
                 Where old friends meet.
         Let him; now heaven is overcast,
         And spring and summer both are past,
                 And all things sweet.

         --Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)



--
John Bailey   Carmarthenshire, Wales
journal of a writing man
<http://www.oldgreypoet.com>