As the Starved Man Looks

Like a starved man looks at the table spread Before him in a vision half his own, So I looked at the last of the year’s glory, The last of the amber of autumn leaves, Falling thick and round, With a slow-moving gravity, Stabbing me with a tender pang, As the sun sinks behind the hills.

All day I had walked in the silent woods, In winter caves of my solitude, Burrowing deep for remnants of light, As the crows fed on journeys wasted on stones, And dusk fell softly like feathers of snow Through trees that held me spellbound.

And as I lingered in the calm of darkening, A tremor ran through me — the still leaves rustled, Calling sweetly to this wanderer of the pathways, So numb and unfamiliar with the light of day. And in that moment, as the sun bowed low, I knew I was but a starved man still, An empty vessel yearning for the feast, When gardens pulse with essence to fill my heart.

• Edward Thomas