On Catching Sight of Autumn
at half past four
the farthest moor
ran blood red
with sinking sun
early gathered guttered leaves
catching hint of winters breath
decorously quiver
in the lingered still of dusk
while in one hundred kitchens
baked beans simmer
beneath the steam-whistle of transition
from the polarities of the classroom
to the less defined contests of the home
this samian splendid seeping sun
curls in upon us
like the crabs we chased laughing
in the shallow pools of summer
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