The Eleventh (sleep of Autumn)

The Eleventh (sleep of Autumn)

Warm, 

Autumn awakes, 

and throws the blankets 

of stars off his back, 

sits with his back 

to the apple trees, 

sighs at the falling rain, 

and looks out 

at the first 

of dawn, 

her fingers 

stretching the sky, 

across the morning’s breath 

of light.

He shivers, 

not that it’s cold, 

but because 

of his dreams, 

the echoes 

of summer, 

this passing 

of days, 

and his sister, 

Spring, 

lost to the earth, 

sleeping, 

deeply,

by the plough 

of fields, 

under roots 

of trees, 

beneath 

the neap 

of tides, 

the shadows 

of rest, 

imagining colours 

and blossoms, 

fertility and fecundities, 

the giving 

of seeds, 

in the joy 

of life. 

But she sleeps.

He stretches 

and stands, 

the wind 

blusters about him, 

the fire 

of leaves 

rise and flurry, 

in dull, 

in damp, 

in the dust 

of early morning grey, 

and then settle again 

about his feet, 

a heaped pile 

of memories 

and moments 

to bury deep, 

then bury deeper 

until the month 

of May. 

He yawns, 

the wind again,

stirs and tarries 

in the empty canopies 

of the thinning darkness, 

the silhouetted branches, 

the burning fires  

and twigs 

of the solitary souls 

of trees, 

‘Enough,’ he shouts, 

in a roar 

of gales and rage,  

and rips his hands 

through clouds, 

the last of stars 

and a stubborn 

morning sky, 

the earth tilts 

and trembles, 

he thrashes and turns 

expanding,exhaling 

into the first 

of the November wrath 

of winter storms, 

rain and hail, 

gusts and drops 

of heavy fragments 

of an already empty sky. 

The Earth spins.

Suddenly 

and depleted, 

he collapses 

and falls 

in mists 

and shrouds, 

slipping into frost 

and silence, 

the shattered puddles 

iced and cold,

over his head, 

he lies, 

dead and frozen 

across the huddled darkness 

of dull November 

and the last struggling hands 

of dawn 

and morning gold.

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