Poems

IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR

AND SO MY FRIENDS MY TIME HAS COME AT LAST,

SUNDIALS OF LIFE CAN THEY BE SLOW OR FAST,

LIFE'S FLEETING SHADOWS CAST, AND DISAPPEAR,

LIKE DYING REEDS IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

AND SO MY LIFE IS DRAWING TO A CLOSE,

NO MORE TO SMELL THE SWEETNESS OF THE ROSE,

NO MORE TO KISS MY LOVE, WHO I HOLD DEAR,

IN WINTER, SPRING AND SUMMER, OR IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

NO MORE TO PAINT THE BEAUTY OF YOUR SMILE,

FOR TIMES DARK CURTAIN FALLS ON ME AWHILE,

DO NOT BE SAD MY LOVE, OR SHED A TEAR,

FOR ME DON'T GRIEVE IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

NO MORE TO SEE THE "PIPPIN" BLUSHING RED,

THE "ADMIRAL" AND THE "PEACOCK" FLUTTERING IN THE BED,

THE SCENT OF HONEYSUCKLE RAMBLING WILD AND CLEAR,

FOR I MUST RAMBLE TOO IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

NO MORE TO SEE THE BLUSHING WESTERN SKY,

THE MOON'S FIRST TIMID SPLINTER IN MY EYE,

THE RAINBOW'S BEAUTY THAT GOD'S NATURE REAR,

IN WINTER, SPRING AND SUMMER, OR IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

MAY MY DEPARTING SPIRIT FILL THE EARTH,

REFRESH THE SOIL THAT REALLY GAVE ME BIRTH,

I MUST REPLACE THOSE THINGS THAT I HOLD DEAR,

AND LEAVE MY LOVE FOR YOU IN AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR,

SO NOW MY FRIENDS THE DOOR IS OPEN WIDE,

I KNOW NOT WHAT WAITS ON THE OTHER SIDE,

LIFE'S SHADOWS SHIFT, AND CHANGE THEN DISAPPEAR,

GOODBYE TO YOU IT'S AUTUMN'S TIME OF YEAR.

H.S. Cook 1986 Copyright April Cook

"WHY"

I'VE LAID MY HEAD ON FOREIGN SOIL,

FROM "PINDI" TO MADRAS,

AND MARCHED FOR MILES THROUGH TROPIC DUST,

AND SUNBURNED INDIAN GRASS.

BRIGHT MOON HAS BEEN MY CANDLE LIGHT,

MY ROOF THE BURMESE SKY,

I'VE LAID AND PONDERED MANY THINGS,

BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?

THE INDUS RIVER I HAVE CROSSED,

AND WASHED FROM HER COLD BREAST,

WHITE SANDS OF SIND HAS FILLED MY EYES,

AS I TRAVELLED DUE NORTH WEST.

MY FRIENDS HAVE DIED FROM PATHAN GAS,

DEAD EYES UP TO THE SKY,

I'VE LAID AND PONDERED MANY THINGS,

BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?

THIS COUNTRY'S YOUTH FOR YEARS HAVE STOOD,

ON OUTPOSTS FAR AWAY,

SOME OF THEM NEVER TO RETURN,

IN FOREIGN SOIL THEY LAY.

FOR EVER BRITISH THEIR REMAINS,

THEIR SOULS SCREAM TO THE SKY,

THEY LAY SO QUIET AND PONDER NOT

BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?

H.S.COOK (Date Unknown).  Copyright April Cook.