Autumn has not yet come.
Yet the sun shines
On dry leaves.
I find in my mind
That Autumn has come
And my leaves
Have Turned to grey.
But I am still here
In this fading year
Though my May
Has long since run away.
We go through birth.
Then, like leaves
We feed the earth.
But before we fall
We enjoy the bird’s call.
Though none can outrun
The setting sun.
Now I’ve passed the half century mark
And the dark
Of night no longer hides from sight,
A girl’s hand
Laid on my arm
And the charm
Of her dark hair
Can still command
My poet’s heart and art.
All you said,
Was “take care”,
But your long black hair
And open heart
Brought the thought of bed
Where no lover does grace
The vacant space.
My coffee grows cold,
And I old.
And here I sit
Playing the wit,
Until death calls time
On wit
And rhyme.
On hearing my clock chime
I think on Father Time.
I touch my grey hair
And wish for a woman ere
My ageing clock does finally stop
Ending time and my passing rhyme
My hair is thinning.
I drink and think
On sinning with women.
And, as I drink
I ponder on
Where my hair
Has upped and gone!
In early December
I heard
The dawn bird
And did remember
Another year
Will soon end.
My friends
Are growing older.
I hear
Pretty young women
Ask me
About family matters.
There will be
No more sinning.
Merely hot tea
And matters
Of domesticity
For me.
It is my birthday tomorrow
But I shall celebrate tonight
When there will be delight
With family and friends. And sorrow
On the morrow
For I shall turn 50 on Sunday
And an unaccountable headache, will with me stay
Throughout my birthday.
Though the hair of the dog will remain
To ease my pain …
As one grows older
There opens
A great chasm
Where enthusiasm
Sighs
And dies.
The chasm deep
Does so easily creep
Upon man,
Who must step back
(If he can)!
K Morris - Poet 