Autumn Gravel

The crisp Autumn gravel
Crunches underfoot,
As the morning mist threads
Its silent way through the copse
And down the hoary slopes to the house,
Where dawn's dew has crystallised
On every blade of grass.
And the Sun, tired from the Summer's run,
Lies red and heavy and low -
Sliced in half by a black
Branch of an age-old oak.

Here I stand and remark
The first frost of Winter,
Clean crisp air cleansing
The Summer's dust from us all,
And enjoying the sharp light
Before the nights lengthen
And the winter winds howl at the door,
And the frost gains in icy weight
And slips its steely fingers tight
Around my winter-wary soul.