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By Meera Uberoi
The mulberry trees
Have shed their leaves,
The poplar trees are bare,
The peach tree rears
It’s splender spears,
Into the cold grey air.
No humming bees
Fly through the trees,
Laden with stolen gold.
No blossom bright
Will scent the night-
It is now withered, old.
The last bird song,
Will not be long,
Then silence everywhere;
You will not hear
Those crystal clear
Notes rippling in the air.
These misty days,
Autumn’s last phase,
Pierced with an icy prong,
Cold winter’s breath
Will bring their death-
They’ll fade out with the song.
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