That sun lying low behind the trees
And making two-dimensional monsters
Stretch across the grass of the grazing sheep;
That sun so fiercely bright I can but glance at it,
And am blinded to all the world around when I do,
Is playing make belief -
A lion that roars to cower the realm
It’s now too old to rule, and soon must die -
That sun is slowly slipping into winter’s wane;
He’s in the evening of his year,
And lays Autumnal wistfulness
On meadows, hills and hedgerows -
A gentle touch that strokes
The colours towards their winter sleep.