They were burning dead leaves. Must oozed with scent,
tar bubbled and blew.
The moonlight glow behind the thistle bent
like a torn rainbow.
The street was a forest, night slid into the heart
of deepest autumn.
A guilty music the house apart
with its fife and drum.
To have this again, just this, just the once more:
I would sink below
autumnal earth and place my right hand in your
hand like a shadow.
trans. George Szirtes