Autumn things are not at the beginning,
but the winding stream that leads to an end,
the clogged up water course filled with
the gold of leaves and discarded fruit
from over abundant summer days.
Skies and trees blaze red.
Nothing dies. The sunsets sign,
something creeps in, the fear
of a year become middle aged.
We hurry on, because to linger
is to meet something in the woods,
woken from reverse hibernation,
Samhain’s heathen transient.
Heady smell of damp in all senses,
these things which might be
neither falls from the oaks
nor given up by heaven,
bronze mystery treasure
on the tawny forest floor,
rewards for the finder.