This poem was written by former resident of Park Gardens, Trudy Bedford. She said “On Monday 8th November I took a leisurely walk down to the town; it was a cheerless day, yet so beautiful, so much so, that my mind would give me no rest until I had written down what I had seen on my walk, and how my emotions were stirred by it. Before the day had ended, I had written the following poem:”
November’s Carpet
A dull and, drear November day it seemed to be,
no sun would break through the leaden cloud:
And yet, about me as I walked,
such beauty did I see on pathway, garden, lawn and street
Nature’s rich, tweed carpet, underneath my feet!
Blind indeed would any person be
who simply had not eyes to see such loveliness as this.
A carpet not weaved upon a loom,
nor found within a stately room,
Not hidden in a warehouse store,
but just rolled out on earth’s damp floor.
I stood beneath a chestnut tree,
– a tree I’d all but passed –
Its leaves were spilt so thick upon the grass
which in the summer was a mat of verdant green,
Yet on this November day no single blade
of grass could e’er be seen,
So thick did that leaf carpet lie
beneath the grey autumnal sky.
And there I saw – almost with disbelief
that one small chestnut leaf
Possessed more colours than in the rainbows are,
from palest yellow, through all the shades
That lead to rich, dark brown.
A passer-by would doubtless wonder why
I should be looking at a fallen leaf,
a tear within my eye.
He simply would not understand that in that leaf
I also saw God’s own creative Hand.
For no man can paint such colours on leaves
that fall from chestnuts, sycamore, cherry trees:
From aspen, maple, silver birch
the oak and ash, the copper beech.
Such artistry as this no human hand can ever reach.
This is the Unseen Artist’s Hand,
whose palette gives a coloured birth
to the frail canvas we call earth.
Within the moist, receptive ground on which they lay
the leaves decay, to be rec-cycled in the soil;
And on another – distant – day, and in another autumn,
show again that same beauty, such as I have seen today.
Of all the autumn seasons that, through the years,
and in their turn, have come to me,
not one of them can e’er surpass the beauty
of November ninety-three.
Trudy Bedford
8 November 1993
