Autumn is more than a season.
It’s the feeling
Of the world falling down around you –
Yellow and reds:
Heaven and hell.
The closure of warmth,
The fug of turf fires,
A subtle breeze biting your skin,
A familiar darkness closing in.
It’s the season of horror
and hiding behind masks –
A chill leaks into your soul
as you look around
at what is lost.
The silenced children’s voices
now hide behind closed curtains,
Their once glowing faces now white
From the glow of their screens.
Trees sway, unconfident in their nakedness,
Their once plentiful garb strewn to the ground.
Desolate, they wait patiently
For longer days
And a hint of sun.
And so, we go about our days,
Our houses and cars lit to fight the darkness,
Waiting until we see that first green bud
On the old, dependable sycamore tree.
Sarah Fitzgerald, 02/10/2018