October Tune

                                   A stuffed quail
                    on the mantelpiece minds its tail.
             The regular chirr of the old clock’s healing
                    in the twilight the rumpled helix.
              Through the window, birch candles fail.

For the fourth day the sea hits the dike with its hard horizon.
                 Put aside the book, take your sewing kit;
            patch my clothes without turning the light on:
                                       golden hair
                                keeps the corner lit.