In the shadow of autumn with light fading fast,
he passes the corpses of leviathans
piled heavy and weary with evening dust
like the shaft and the chamber of his unused gun.

Hands trembling, he reaches for the last hanging leaf,
falls short where the alcove is battered by dust,
where the frozen triumph of dead majesties reigns
over wastelands of breath not choking in lust.

By the old oak tree, now criss-crossed with scars,
he stretches his fingers, but the cuts go too far,
like the texture of old fruit, spoiled ashen and hard,
his brow knits like torn kites, cold as the stars.

But his memory is shot like the veins in his legs,
where his heart beats feebly for another day,
dreams pass without colour, songs end without
sound, and he cannot remember the fragrance of May.

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