To Arthur in Autumn

The tree flamed orange, yellow, green
and the flame returned to leaves.

The tree was overjoyed with yellow apples,
fruit-happy in the sun.

The tree was a bank of yellow flowers
that made witty the grass.

The tree was fired with autumn,
scattered with old bright leaves.


Arthur, you stood in the sun
and now death robs you of colour.

Your life was streaming with people –
that light-held warmth is gone.

Oh see the colours of autumn
before they die, and you die,

and a holiday fire will blaze,
and the flame return to leaves.

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