False Autumn (also from Yearsong)

Autumn came early in the year of drought.
Leaves scarlet and golden falling untimely.
Cobnuts trodden underfoot litter the path.
As the sun beats down.

Dry leaves carpet woodland floors in this false Autumn,
Crackling like fire with every step.
As I seek shade.

I remember the autumns of my childhood.
The wild bounty of sloe and elderberry, blackberry and rose hip.
Of polished conkers ready for playground battles
and orchards ripe with apple, pear and plum.
A time of gentle plenty.

I long for the soft mists of true autumn.
Damp leaves and moist earth.
For the sharp, clean smell of frost.
With cobwebs draped like silver nets on hedgerows,
Each water droplet a shining jewel caught in frosted threads
and delicate ferns of ice etched on window panes,
As the year begins to turn towards Winter.

Autumn came early in the year of drought.
A travesty of Autumn.
Born of too much heat.
Of dried up rivers, scorched earth and withered crops.

Late summer trees shed leaves,
Stressed beyond endurance, seeking to survive,
Hastening towards their winter rest.
A healing sleep.
A sleep from which not all will wake.


    written in the summer of 2022