Autumn

And Now to play the final act and in what other

Tragedy did e’er such a heroine die so well as

Mother nature in autumn.

And what perverse creator deity set death within

Such glory? But no, no.

No Midas turned these green to gold in lust or fancy.

The glory is not for death but in praise

Of Mother Nature’s year of work.

The harvest.

*********

I curse these sterile rapists,

That fleece the golden raiment

With such indignity

And wish for bygone days of

Scythe and sheath and stook and Stack.


But mine they do this golden harvest and

Leave the earth like an old man’s chin.

*********

And forests blaze, ignited by the chill of frost

Hot colours, cold flames that fanned by autumn

Gales take wings to lick and dance their way to

A quieter, windless resting place; a sleepy hollow

Filled to pools of deep crisp scrunching

Kicking toys to a child.


And those that came to eat our summers

Humming hordes have left like Venus to beyond

Southern shores.

And out of Borealis sweeping curtain return

Old friends like Vikings they plunder our

Bejewelled hedgerows full of hip and haw,

The redwing and the field fare.


And what spirits work their magic beneath a

Cloak of autumn mist that by the break of dawn

See fairy rings and stools for toads with gaudy

Caps erupt

Or spider webs bejewelled with dew.

And when by night the foxes yelp and owls

Screech are they beckoning Orion to mount the

Winter heavens, as if to appease their hunter God.

Such poignancy a season of happy sads, of endings

As all around lies withering, discarded

But then what cold magic lies in winter arms

To a dormant mouse ‘tis but three days till

Resurrection comes.