The Meadow

The meadow lies in autumn’s hand, The last of the flowers drifting, Their petals a whisper on the wind, Every blade of grass a memory, Each color a story to a wandering heart.

Under the oak, the air thickens, With whispers of a ghostly past, Golden stalks bend in the soft dusk glow, As if bowing to the earth, to the sky, In a dance that only twilight knows.

• George Mackay Brown