unnoticed; we thought it had arrived. The subtle lull of autumn tricked us with its need for cardigans and leaves aesthetically arranged on garden floors and streets. We thought the worst had come, forgot how true cold feels on toes. And now: the need for scarves in bags (in case) and duffle coats; the huddled walk of chilling feet and all the proud offense of those who do not know the cold. Father hands: please keep us warm. The winter does not sit with us. And strengthen mumbling grumbling minds to take the worst that comes.
Yes, the leaves die as they go golden, yet this does not speak to me of death, as hand-in-hand we walk below bowers which colour the world’s bright defiant grave. Tombs carry promise, still dormant – a longing – life hidden by these shrouds of weak foresight – then, like colour transfigured in a shower of gold, soon to sing, “Death, where’s your victory? Your sting?”
Poor leaves - gold before the sun is gone, heat-confused, your brothers green, fallen now before your time, the street lined thick with your mistake - leaves, lie still and wait. Last week summer ruled the street; spring creeps in, winter retreats. We mourned the heat, we dreamt the dreams that drove the leaves down to the ground. Autumn soul, poor autumn soul, let the seasons pass you by and rest a while in grace.