Whose fields these are I think I know.
They were my father’s long ago,
but sold to farmers living near:
two men who’ve yet to come to mow.
I come in gray disguise of year
to search for yesterdays more dear,
so they’ll charge me with no misdeeds
for walking in their meadow here.
In northern clouds the sun recedes,
and summer now, to fall, concedes,
but I have come once more to find
a warmer day among the weeds.
Those warmer days are now confined
to memories concealed behind
the shroud of years that clouds my mind,
the shroud of years that clouds my mind.