Sing no nostalgic songs of September,
When knees and calendar declare it’s December.
The leaves of autumn—long blown away,
Trees in the evening—barren and grey.
Long, dark nights are here to stay.
And what became of October, November?
The tide of time swept them swiftly away.
Yes, the Bird of Time is on the wing,
Bird, open your beak while you can and sing
For the hunter lurks, his aim is steady,
His oven waits, the roasting pan ready.
The bucket of lists, rusted through and through,
Spilling places to visit and things to do.
More important now than that itinerary,
Are the people and places so dear in memory,
For these days remaining are precious and few.
Buds in springtime, the flowers of summer,
Tanned hands and faces, so well remembered.
Fields of barley and dark starlit nights,
The memories of these, so vivid and bright.
And the young love, the true love, who came from the sea?
Though time took its toll, you are still here for me.