The Poetry Corner

The Opal Month

By Virna Sheard

Now cometh October - a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway! On the world she smiles - but to me it seems Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams, Or memories of the May. Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare As she dances gaily by - Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest, And she tenderly holds against her breast A belated butterfly. The crickets sing no more to the stars - The spiders no more put up silver bars To entangle silken wings; But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn, And here and there - both at night and at morn - A lonely robin still sings. A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent With perfumed winds from the Orient And they weave o'er her a spell, For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet - And while mists like incense curl at her feet, She lingers her beads to tell.