The meadows sprout alive with ochre swirls
emerging from - familiar zephyr streams
as tho' through leafage tongue an essence twirls,
but whom had sought and won my Autumn dreams.

The rhythmic chatter's one I've heard before
that drummed my infant years in Falls of old,
with sweetly moans of breezes rife from yore
then swept adrift my thoughts out through the wold.

Amid the tanned and yellow pattern leaves
a brittle patter raps upon this heart,
and blows my wonder where one's love believes;
that here unites what season's drift apart.

O' mother! Yes, it's you within the fall
returning me that love that were my all.