Compass

Autumnal

The first week in November
is as startlingly beautiful,
as rich an eye-fest
as when May takes April's hand.

Looking for hyper-tri-dimensionality?
I will fill you in.

The missing dimensions
are away with the fairies
'in the space behind the space
in front of (the blossom stamens
or) the leaf points'

as Sheila told me long ago,
I so wish was somewhere now...

I stop and say aloud:
"What can I do? What can I?"

but since no answer emerges
from the exhaust of passing cars
or the silent mouths of houses
I walk on down the avenue again.

How thinning trees make play with a grey sky,
sparse leaves and budded wire
interspersing nothingness,

and how the breeze shimmers their
gold, ochre
orange, bronze, copper,

until like the most in wytch elm avenues
there is only winter gesture,
stricken attitudes, breeze-disparaging.

Nothing to shimmer but
berries on that bare rowan, now,
scrutinizing,  ruddily, those who pass beneath,

pass an autumn-gorgeous cemetery
where black-decked mourners exit,
supporting their stately absences

along the concrete-footed heavy railings of
the curve to the Cumberland bridge

past deep-breath-intakes
of pale-lemon carpet,
mirror of those
showcase boughs above,
holding their poise

by cemetery mason's
rectangular memorials - marble, Portland
stacked for the carving...