While we cringed
beneath apocalyptic skies
and the wild tides
burst the river’s sodden banks
Autumn sun shines
bright as an August morning
but the racing tide runs higher
in a torrent of drowned tree trunks
torn from some seaward mudbank
shattering the placid summer mirror.
The gentle breeze sighs
buffeted by wilder gusts
all softness wrung and scattered.
Sharp-edged and unkind
the wind that blows now
to shake the yellow leaves
until they fall
a brittle rain across the water.
And in its voice the howl of the bleak ocean
and the champing of winter cold.