Dusk is falling.
I hear
In the autumn of my year
Crows calling
And the chatter of the magpie
As I
Ponder on days of yore.

The caw
Of this dark bird
Was no
Doubt heard
Long ago
By those who walked this self-same track.

The evening is chill
But I will
Not turn back
For melancholy is a precious part
Of the human heart,
And those who forever laugh
Do not comprehend
That every path
Must reach its end.

—

I hear children playing in a garden close to the park.
‘Tis a happy sound after the cawing of the crows.
Who knows
Perhaps matters
Are not so stark
For not all dreams shatter
And something of what is precious may survive.