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The Fall

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The Fall

The Fall

In a letter to Joyce, 21 pages

A big hole has opened up before my eyes – I can now see the skies
as Summer, sheds her clock of thick greens – now torn and tattered –
faded into shades of gold, red, brown and yellow.
The threads of Summers passing, – in it’s colours of brown, yellow, 
red and gold – for two weeks have been coming down like kites
in the hands of children at play, carried on winds of fall,
like butterflies on the wing, pining for the loss of spring as they
flutter about in winter’s decay, like snow flakes falling on a cold, gray, day,
like whirlwinds- invisible – caught by the discerning eye, like kamikaze pilots diving straight to the ground, exploding into colours of brown, all around.
That once green and vibrant forest – that filled my spirit, my eyes all summer –
now stands tall before me, naked and barren, creating a window 
through which I can now can see blue, gray, black cloud days
or wet skies, even a sunset or two as I now see shapes of people who walk,
jog, ride, talk along the banks of a creek they call a river –
Coquitlam river – who’s song I can now hear, as it sing it’s song,
as it moves along, on it’s way to that Pacific who awaits her fill,
as she rages on in winter months.
The skies, as I, have been crying – weeping, grieving – for the loss of
warm, blue, dry days of this past, most beautiful summer of all
I have known in the thirty plus years I have been here.

B. J. “A” 2
November 17th 2006

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield

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