fall poem

let me move slowly through the street
rocked in the cradle of the deep
my son is dead and i am going blind
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
the little white prayers
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i make my shroud, but no one knows
there is a country full of wine
gone before us
sun stepped down from his golden throne
renew the vision of delight
beneath my window in a city street
along a river-side