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THE   BRAVE   MAN   STANDS    -     THE   COWARD   LEAVES.

I  stood  watching  the first snowflake’s  battle action : 
First of a horde – a  first-flake  trumpeter  announcing 
The immense white horde’s  cold intention 
Of riding roughshod  and merciless over everything,

Last  week  my friendly  leaves burned gold,
But their cold heat was an illusion,
No warm defence ‘gainst the winter cold.
Theirs  was no  flame of defensive passion

It  was  a  mere seeming  fire-moat, 
But  a dying fire, not burning - just the yellow 
Of coward leaves running and turning coat   
At  the  hint of a  white army  certain to follow.

Cold golden souls trembled as wind bit their shape,  
And to the air they  wildly took, fleeing,  trying to escape –
Tumbling in panic for a while, rising slowly  to drop  like tears.
Above the wood  for another mile  then  fell to rest with  craven peers.

Widely then under the  boughs of laden yellow leaf 
Spread a  sorry carpet  of brave summer come to  grief.
They  were  blown to the river - not to flame ,
But with dampened ardour   to run  ungainly, with shame,

And  float ignominiously,  and collect their coward fellows
In unranked masses  at the slack  black shallows.
Among the faded reeds and river weeds
Hiding  their terror  and their coward’s deeds

Where brave summer had reigned in wood and  river
Now only poltroons  were  seen to shiver.
They fled  on the run  out of the wood -
Fair weather friends abandoning me  as I stood.

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