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Adrienne O'Toole's Poem
AN
AUTUMN
Each twig and piece of broken root that lies
here, by this almost quiet, almost rural path
has been rained upon, blown about, until
ingrained into each smooth surface
is the yellow of the local stone. With
a rougher, darker texture, therefore tone,
the path, too,is yellow in the aging sun.
I have trodden this strip of earth
cold, hard, compressed by many feet
both man & beast. Still
pebbles and stones break it,
dig into the soles of my every step.
The sounds are, mostly, subtle as the light.
A distant crumbling sound of traffic,
soft birdsong, but also
intermittently, dull percussions of guns
somewhere: poachers on my peace.
I am alone. None other would so readily come
as spiders, dancing for me.
I am alone.
You drowned your history dead, but mine
will not drown.
I cannot drown it.
Among the birds, between the rusting treetops,
the crazed croak of black crows
circling like English vultures.
Late though it has come,
I feel the autumnal wind,
cold.
Henceforward I will remember
those autumnal sounds, sulphur yellow;
the echoes of gunshots at some small beast.
An end.
Written by Adrienne O'Toole © 1999
http://www.fortunecity.co.uk/southbank/media/20/index.html
