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Click hereThe hours have shrunk – there used to be a time
when there were still tomorrows, when there were
wide avenues to walk, and when the trees
stood tall on either side, their leaves as yet
not fully grown but timid reds and greens that go
with spring; dry gravel underfoot,
deep shadows, sunny stretches, dappled light,
my glad directions when the signposts had
been newly painted and I thought I knew
exactly where to go. But now the paint
is peeling, on the road the gravel's dark
with mud and fallen leaves and those tall trees
seem less imposing: the initial joys
of travelling have vanished as today
has overtaken later on my way.
Writeth the Poetess in Winter ? Demure a reader gets the feeling you are not simply speakin' about Autumn but extendin' your exquisite word-brush to the Autumn of one's life !