The golden days of late October fade As bleak November’s iron skies descend. When tresses, like the leaden clouds, have grayed, We see our fruitful time’s approaching end. The sunlight that besieged us with its heat Now leans against the south walls, cold and tired. There is no empire time will not defeat; Each Golden Age that flared has soon expired. Byzantium lies silent under steel, Persepolis has crumbled back to dust. Despite the wistful longing we might feel, All times of summer fade, as fade they must. Embrace what time remains; it will not last. Your autumn, too, will soon be ancient past. Lorna Davis is a poet who is happily retired and living in California.