It will not always be like this
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening
In the lawn’s mirror.
Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene,
something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.
Words: R.S Thomas “A Day in Autumn”