The Herons
And now when the earth has stooped to gather
In the careful hands of autumn
All that summer has abandoned,
A time of left behind . . .
Comes a wind that blows unceasing
Erodes away the dunes
On grey moon hungry beaches,
Cry out in black formation
Their scorn upon the world
Everturning . . .
And there where the fruit no longer ripens
On the vines the years have withered,
Has the earth so soon forgotten
That not so long ago
How the wind was soft and perfumed
How the herons turned and circled
With their wings aflame with sunset . . .
Now the winter crows parading
Cry out in black formation
Their scorn upon the world
everchanging . . .
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