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.
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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.
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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.