Autumnal Sunday


Rain, it is October the month of melancholy
and you know that the blue sky and sun of
yesterday was just another foolish illusion
the cock didn’t crow this morning and dogs
ears didn’t move when a stranger’s voice
echoed in narrow streets, they knew it was
the voice of doom;

the harvester had arrived in coming month
the old would succumb to the damp breath
of death; not too many tears shed, faces in
a black frame, yes, that’s the way it is we
understand death if not our own. Dogs need
not be told, they snooze sure of their own
own immortality