by M.G. Warenycia
Bleak and blear, the pallid Autumn ray
Pours frail and heatless light
On scenes divorced from the violet night
Whose harvest, fresh-planted, lay
‘Neath the wind-bent pines which brood upon the bight,
Reposing, all still and cold and white;
A cheerless smile, waiting to defile the luckless jogger’s day.
The lake-wind calls up each leaden wave
From out the unglimpsed deeps;
Though shimmers yet the huddled aspen’s leaf,
Already, Winter, into the watcher’s marrow seeps,
And plunges the soul down a darkling cave
From whose sordid shadows flitting day brings no relief.
Snow to Sand: Poetry, Stories and Musings from Canada, the Caribbean and Ukraine 