Of leaves and days and nights

Sad smell of the lilacs
doomed to return

to the earth
from which they sprang

sad wisdoms that falter
as the weekend ends

the soil that is turned
late in autumn

that will lie barren
through the winter frosts

How distant we have become
from our own lucidities

how estranged from
time-honoured intelligence

seduced by the gimmicks
of hand-held electricities

John Lyons