For Days They Are

The days, as if the fish, swim down the brook
aslumbering under autumn midday sky,
pass by, their eyes in search of prey, they look
for safe retreat to ask themselves the question ‘why
should we await there for such long a time
to come again and be, but only for a day?’

The clouds, that claw their way through an obscure celestial clime.
The yellow leaves that let themselves be lifted when winds play.