In August the mists came up
from field and forest at five o'clock.
A huge moon crouched on them.
By September days were shortening
and by October I had gone.
You wrote me that the first snow came
but had not lasted very long.
"It went away" your letter said,
"like you, but unlike you,
the snow will come again."
If you have any comments on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to
hear from you.