SOMERS FALL.  

Autumn day, harvest, Autumn gold,
Taste,
Furnished burnished beech bronze,
Tinted in the shadow lands,
Mellow mists low where pleasant waters flow.

Reminiscences, toast of a Puritan past,
In hostelries now, built as stations then.
Colour my memory with your New Model Army.
A fragment lost like Somers Past.

Journey on to Dulverton, and the sound of the distant rut
Where the old clapper Bridge still stands to serve and to span,
 The Barle, Trippers now.

Though at the Tigg spot, he light fades,
Way like my view, like my words running,
Like the river runs to the Sea, to the Sea.  

By Andrew Fry.
First Published in A Poet's Retreat 1996