Towards The Dark (Poetry)

The tree is frittering its green
the wind’s a lousy thief
Autumn strips its soul between
each love-and-leave-me leaf

Empty arms beseech the sky
cold branches creak and moan
the day is one long wistful sigh
whole flocks of birds have flown

The yellow-brown and orange-red
all shades of loss and pain
the gathered hearts of newly-dead
lie trampled in the rain

November bares its callous mood
and rations a pale sun
to poor impressions unpursued
now Winter’s primed to come

And nothing gives a hopeful sign
too much is chill and stark
the hour broods — the Fates malign
we drift towards the dark