Six Bells ( For October)

Six bells

It was upon the six bells tolling across the darkness that opened the day with a yawn, October stretched, shook, and chased the light rain off his skin.

It was cooler now. 

He passed his invisible hands through the pools of shimmering stars, sprinkling their light across his earth stained face, rubbed their promises of frost and early snow through his branches and wrinkles that creased the fields in lines and furrows, under the lightening dawn. 

The sun was late. 

He blew into his hands, cupped and folded in wings and songs of the earliest birds, and released a breath of wind and singing, that tickled the trees, whispered across deserted gardens, the abandoned flower beds and murmured across the flattened rooftops that glistened in  slates and steps against the forest edges.

The sun blinked, lifting herself up from blankets of fogs, forgotten faces of reflections, the puddles of tears, the mournful memories of a passing summer, washed in colours, clouds and drifts of leaves against the tall stretching oaks at the edge of the world itself, and blinking again, she flooded the earth in pools of gold and  light, her sisters in constellations and singing silence, hushed the night beyond the stillness and shadows to a passing dreaming of night.

And so October arose, reluctant and reduced, for November, he saw, was awaiting. He lifted his collars around his thinning neck, slipped into his shoes of mud, stone and earth, wrapped his cloak a little tighter about himself and walked towards the spilling light of the sun. He stumbled twice, as he stepped over the twinkling lights of homes and towns, the streets and roads, with their blinking buttons of moving lights. 

And heard the bells no more.

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