The Sun Is Low

The sun is low, catching the road just so

To etch in ebony and gold the slow,

Falling leaves and crooked, dripping branches.

The hills, their nethers tucked under haunches,

Asleep beneath a frigid veil, await the Spring.

And where Autumn had sowed enticing strings

And sprays of rubies, the honest Hawthorn

Bristles there, quite bare, and sharply unadorned.

But oh! When will Winter revoke the cold?

Bring me the sun when the Spring leaf unfolds

And hedgerows are humming with more than

The motors of cars and busses and vans.

A cyclist can pedal without a care

For sleet and drizzle, and ride with arms bare,

Untouched by the chill breeze that numbs the toes,

Sears the lungs, and burns the marrow of old bones.