Even in these drearier months,
As the year winds down,
There is still such beauty in the sky,
In the very air,
A titian blanket across the clouds,
And the perfume of distant bonfires,
The crisp wind swirls about you,
A cloak of winter imminent,
There is a serenity in autumn,
A composure unmatched in the years youth,
The dusk is here,
So drink in the tangerine sky,
Remember the summer times,
And feel the chill on your cheek,
Before the light finally dies.
I heard tell of a witch,
A maiden in this harvest season,
A lady in an obsidian regalia,
Where she walks the flock congregates,
A winged host of subjects,
Upon her word do they fly,
She walks paths lost to man,
She is the mother of ravens,
She is never alone,
She is nature,
She is death,
She carries the murder in her soul,
The Morrigan
Do you still hear her voice?
A solemn call in the brume,
As the nights grow more beastly,
As the winds grow ever in tempo,
And winters spectre peers from behind trees,
Do you feel her caress?
By the fireside,
Under that sedate harvest eve,
As the atmosphere swims in sandalwood,
And the breeze tears up that amber carpet,
Autumn comes every year,
And it is a season of entropy,
So tell me,
Do you still hear her voice,
Upon autumns mournful boughs?
A realisation struck me,
Like a thousand leaves falling,
That my soul is of an autumnal paradigm,
I resonate with the newly grey skies,
I am Halloween and melancholia,
I am not living but instead turning amber and gold,
When I say good morning,
I expel cold misty air,
I play with the increasing winds,
Hiding behind pinecones and shed leaves,
As the days harvest comes to an end,
I greet the growing night with a sombre bonfire,
I am decay,
Not death itself,
It is not yet winter,
This I know,
I am the march towards the end,
Not the ossuary itself.
The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,
Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,
What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?
The times of cold approach,
And the dark with it,
Twin seasons of Fall and Jack Frost,
Times of boreal frost biting at your fingers,
Seasons of shivers,
Presents of pumpkins and bonfires,
But not before the autumnal death of the year,
Firstly come the hues of orange and brown,
Emeralds decaying from the boughs,
Laying a carpet of beguiling entropy,
A funeral for this turn of the sun,
With scents of ginger and freshness,
Then follows the true storm of cold,
Walls of snow from the sky,
Rain haunting the alleys like spectres,
Jack Frost cackles in blizzards,
Leaving little crystalline stars about as presents,
These times bring cold and discomfort,
It’s undeniably true,
But it also brings gatherings around fireplaces,
Blankets and cuddles and cinnamon,
Hope for a new year,
If the cold didn’t bear down,
We wouldn’t know the warm.
WorldofHarley 