Now They’re Gone

It starts as a visual thing;
first you watch, then a feeling
intervenes: puffs of colour dust
the hillsides, brief explosions
that don’t subside when their first bursts
strike into your field of vision.
Not trees but primaries: they wrap
the side of a house, overlap
one another in bright shocks
of red, redder, pure pillar box.
Forget the trees, only colours
seize the mind. When leaves change
from green to red our souls ache
with longing—for what? Who would know?
Transient as the air we breathe,
feelings wash through us and leave
as though they never meant to stay.
That is only the first half;
wait until you feel the wrench
as leaves begin to drop away:
run your hand up a fruit-tree branch,
watch them all fall eagerly;
they stream like butterflies past
women in Burberry scarves
and children intent at play
who never notice them. Lost
to everything, they crowd the streets
where cars crush them into dust.
Poets might make the most of what
will strike a final mystic note
but take a leaf from my book:
don’t understand, simply look.