Autumn

 Whoever has no house now will never have one.

 Whoever is alone will stay alone
 Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening
 And wander on the boulevards, up and down.
.
.


 - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke


Its stain is everywhere.

The sharpening air
of late afternoon
is now the colour of tea.

Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
are brittle and ochre.

Night enters day like a thief.

And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.

Whoever has no house now will never have one.


It is the best and the worst time.

Around a fire, everyone laughing,
brocaded curtains drawn,
nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.

The whole world is a cup
one could hold in one's hand like a stone
warmed by that same summer sun.

But the dead or the near dead
are now all knucklebone.

Whoever is alone will stay alone.


Nothing to do.
 Nothing to really do.

Toast and tea are nothing.

Kettle boils dry.

Shut the night out or let it in,
it is a cat on the wrong side of the door
whichever side it is on.
 A black thing
with its implacable face.

To avoid it you
will tell yourself you are something,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening.


Even though there is bounty, a full harvest
that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air
is reserved for those who have made a straw
fine as a hair to suck it through-
fine as a golden hair.

Wearing a smile or a frown
God's face is always there.

It is up to you
if you take your wintry restlessness into the town
and wander on the boulevards, up and down.

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