Winter is Knocking at the Gate

mourning, keening

winter stands knocking

dancing, fluttering

yellow falling leaves

sanguine berries

parched brown stems

crowning thorns

an intimation of

ice

Autumn. There are hints of summer past. The sun attempts to warm, but does not climb high enough. 

Green leaves hang in sheltered spots, and on the great pretenders, the evergreens! 

But there is a rustling, a yellowing, an exposing of structures. Of bones. 

Leaves drop and crunch underfoot. Clothes stay damp on the washing line for days at a time. Days shorten, and stars are brighter in the night sky, and appear to hang nearer, like diamanté spiders lowering on invisible webs.

Between seasons, summer and winter, is an unease. A regret of summer lost, and a fear of short days and cold.

Nature's song, her heart's cry, is played in a minor key. We are past the bustle and huff of the first movement, and slide into a Larghetto, with a haunting melody line played on a clarinet.

It is a time to tidy up. To repair, and batten down. A time to feast on the last of the tomatoes and pears, and to make sure that the pantry is well stocked.

Winter stands knocking at the gate, and rattling the windows. We may have to let him in.