The Colours of...

The colours of the spent and drowsy day
are shadowed in the falling sleep of gloom,
and sunny memory withers all away
within the sleeping shell of autumn's womb.
Rememberance of the leafiness of sping
is oversealed, like cold fish in a pond,
while winter shudders every dying thing,
beating fruitless trees who blossomed fond.
I cannot understand the whispering snow.
Her melancholy wilderness wails numb
as freezing madness: and the storms that blow
have smashed the crystal saplings who succumb.
Their dappled streams dissolve in evening's light
and all around await the fall of night.