You silly, swirling, milling autumn leaves,
Leave off your flitting patter at my window,
My window-panes, my shutters, and my eaves;
Eaves-dropping at your scattering and winnow –
Your winnowing with wind-raked hull and must –
Must pitter-pat my senses with new sorrow;
For sorrow lengthens when the year is dust.
Dust-swirls that sweep my York-stone path tomorrow
With morrow’s whorls and berries’ jumble there,
Their crinkle and their crackle for the barrow;
I’ll barrow them away, good crop and tare,
And tear at them with rake and race and harrow!
This harrowing of wind and husks bereaves –
Bereft the trees – you milling, autumn leaves.
Gold trophy winner
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