Sunday, October 26, 2014


In the darkness of this autumn night,
as fallen leaves are whispering underfoot,
nostalgia puts a ticklish hand upon my throat,
calling forth a scent that smoulders only
in my memories of youth.

In this autumn of my life,
when eco-laws forbid that precious incense
of the waning of the year,
leafsmoke is foiled before it comes to be;
the golden, dusty piles of leaves are wrapped
in bags and carted off or put in compost piles,
and our world is said to be improved
by our well-intentioned eco-clarity.

The children of today have never known
that tangy autumn fragrance; and yet
on autumn nights I sometimes think
I catch the fine aroma of that smoky perfume
and sense its gentle mist upon the fields.

It might be contraband;
a little fire someone sneaked into the darkness.
Or it might be wishful thinking.

1993... by Rose Moore, the Last ROSE of Summer, from her country journals "Valley Songs"