The scattered leaves looked back over their shoulders,
The wind at the front door was cold, harsh and piercing.
Not much else was given to any such particular moment
Save the red dog trotting freely down No Particular Street.
The fireman rang his bell and news that was old news
Was shouted from bell towers at noon, likely as a sign
Of another impending goliath summer
When daffodils bloom in the heady heat.
But my friends, all of them, were missing that summer
And every summer since. Now I don't miss them.
Not any more; how could I? They promised they'd return
And they did. I just can't find them anymore, not like I used to.
Names that sound vaguely familiar to me
Are lost in a whorl, candle light flickers, grows dim,
Then rises in vain glory. Flowers of a similar ilk do likewise.
And the name I most remember is lost too, in a vagabond
Of years that cast no shadow of fleeting remembrance.
Sorrowfully, the duty of the ages is carried out
In secret covens, years hasten with history pinned
To the donkey's rump; it's true!
The meaning (perhaps the melancholy, I mean) is found here,
Eating this apple to its core, rotten, not fit even for the worm.