I really think this poem smells right—tastes right—I don't know, something like that.
The sun, white silver, blinds us
In low November. Naughty lawnmowers groan
And swallow their last thick cuts before
The shorn grass sleeps by mouldy thrones
Of executed oak. The scarecrow hiding
In the hut squints at forks freckled in mildew;
Remembering summer talks on an exhausted
Radio by cheery gardeners from Chelsea,
Such as never stood of a steely night
Or soggy at dawn watching bent bushes,
Trodden beds and the jewelled lawn. The unscared
Crow laughs darkly, marks his meal,
Flying slow. And silver fades to gold.