Gold leaves are cast off by the tree
  in the first frost.
cold morning sunshine tears them free;
they flutter downwards helplessly
to river edges shelved with ice
where scents from earlier sacrifice,
  sharper than frost,
sting the bright air with autumn spice.
The leaves float thick down stream and shoal;
at watersmeet they sink and roll,
  deep as the frost,
into the year-end’s shadowed bowl.
A few brown leaves clutch crisp and curled
where next spring’s catkins, waiting furled,
will dance into a warmer world
  after the frost.