Harvest

by Bert Cooksley

The last few embers of the
rose are dying,
Homeward the drowsy bear
trudges through his wood;
Westward and sunward the wild
geese are flying,
Lemon-brown and rustling the
marsh reeds are sighing,
And the small grove lullabies
her brood.

Gone is the lilac, gone the
tomboy thistle,
Vanished the dogwood, the
clover and the may;
The oak lost his crown, the
hawthorn his bristle,
No more the beach sand hears
the piper’s whistle,
No more the night lark curfews
the day.

Sleep holds the long vale, sleep
walks the broad hill,
Sleep folds the field where the
crickets learned to sing;
Closed is the jay’s home atop the
weathered mill,
Sleepward the land turns, lost of
leaf and still,
And homeward my heart for
harvesting.