Autumn, spring in reverse,
both curse and pleasure,
damp dread seeps into my bones.
But when does it start? This change?
Late August? Perhaps it’s the small things,
the bite of the wind in the morning,
the condensation on the windowsill.
The still dew on spiderwebs spun
between hawthorn hedges,
the haw fruit are festival baubles.
Ash keys unlock the sky,
will they be there at the end of
my lifetime?
In September, the sudden shift of colour,
a golden ombre wave, flirtatious red highlights
before the great undressing.
October is the auburn month,
the leaf litter crunch,
low sunshine through skeletal branches.
Our breath steams,
we pretend that we’re dragons.
And, as we lay another fallen
leaf on your grave, I ponder
little losses and wonder, once again,
how quickly the year seems to turn.
