An Autumn Afternoon
written by: Don Flecknoe
A maple grove,
Gently rustled by the breeze,
Flakes of gold and russet dancing in the sun,
Falling reluctantly to earth.
***
Amid a dappled carpet,
He sits alone and ponders,
‘Where have all those years gone,
Of love and hopes, those Halcion days,
When phrases meant so much.
‘A wasted life of dreams?
Maybe that’s all they were,
That point in time, that spark,
“Shows promise.”
Those words now have such a Hollow ring.’
***
‘Remember, on that lookout?
Below a sea of cloud slowly drifting, fading,
Revealing verdant treetops all the way
To distant sun lit craggy cliffs.’
A hawk hovering on the updraft, watching, waiting.
‘Remember that scrapbook you gave to me?
One hundred pages or so
We filled no more than a page or two,
And yet.’
‘Did we really see
Richard Burton recite Under Milkwood?
That Mozart recital, where was it now?
And Van Gogh in Amsterdam.
Those days of joy and wonder,
Consumed by the art, the music, the word.
More than we had ever felt before.
Together in our revery,
Those nuances of light and shade and meaning.’
‘You played the flute for friends, by the camp fire,
And later, we lay awake,
Stars the only eyes to see our love.’
***
A small boy skips along the path,
A storm of startled leaves,
A flurry in his wake.
He stops and asks,
‘Why are you sitting here?’
The old man smiles,
‘I’m enjoying the autumn afternoon.’
The boy kicks up another storm, and runs off.
The old man ponders,
‘So young, I hope, he enjoys,
Nature’s beauty and the wonders,
Of music, of art and the written word,
As I have.’
- An Autumn Afternoon - January 22, 2025
- Now - October 14, 2024
- Sunrise, Sunset - August 3, 2024
