On that day in late Autumn
The most enrapturing thing of all,
Was the palette of Poppies
In all kinds of provocative colours,
That would make the honest blush.

Kingly streams too blue for cares;
Azure belonged to simple folk
Who harvested the fierce Lavender
'Til the sheaves began to quietly hum,
And the Zephyrs fell to rest.

At province, wrapped in silky cloak
WAY dutifully boast her quirkiness,
And where lands did end and the sea did met,
All tumbled to most amorous depths,
Found where last precious drops of mead
Lay warmly coaxing more mirth.

In twilight fields they bowed to partner;
Last of fading lustre-lore,
Nimbly, on the meadow-green
Presented rare perfection,
For which I had long, tirelessly sought,
Then worn were my feet
Tapping to their content.

Upon dawn, Way forgave my streaming drops
That fell down new, simple cheeks:
The Poppies, cautious of inconstant Zephyr
Fled the province with fierce Lavender,
Taking eroticism upon the waves
Their royal petals fell.

Dishonest was sunlight's stern, cold iron
That disembarked on ancient shore,
Roaring were the hungers of men
That seldom danced, in search of worth
Along sheaves of silk; the pitches of belonging,
That I'd not long met and lost.

Oh Winter had come, mirthlessly forcing
All to tumble to most amorous depths,
And Way has since been coaxing Spring
To rise and save the meadow-green.
But "Alas", she says, "I'll not return
'Til cold-lust fades and men do learn,
When tirelessly I hear them weep
Tapping to this land's content".