“All around, no flowers in bloom
Nor maple leaves in (glare)
A solitary fisher’s hut alone
On the twilight shore
Of this autumn eve.”
This is the year’s last hour of retreat:
the edge of cloud brought low in the perfect calm
almost to touch the water’s still surface.
At low tide a solitary track of footsteps marks the sand,
going out and coming back.
Above, there would be stars and a waxing moon,
but here below, everything is in shadow and in mist.
An ending and a beginning. Winter’s depth.
This One & This One 