From behind the curtain of thick grey fog

peeks melancholia, a familiar face and friend

Hope is but a distant mirage, even a wild bog

It kills you, leaving no sad evidence in the end

Where does the yellow full moon vanish

when a new moon is born up there and far?

Does it become a memory, sweet but painful

dreams, that are either forgotten or they scar?

Or does it shatter into a million little pieces;

each piece evolving into a lovely shining star?

Of what use is a glorious October dawn,

if the beautiful colours over the horizon;

do not remind you and make you smile,

of someone’s blushed and fragrant laughter

This October evening…..

this lovely October evening,

with all her whispering shadows

and the red-golden meadows,

is mine

She is mine to behold

and mine to perceive

and mine to mould

And in calling her ‘Mine!’,

there is a strange comfort,

which cannot be sought

in either music or wine

I feel as if I am a Sylph, a poetic fantasy

the autumn moon, simple and pure ecstasy

I roam the night air and float

so very near, yet remote

I watch all and feel all;

feelings – either big or small

I watch all and feel all;

but I am not a part of this at all