“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”
[The Autumnal]
― John Donne,

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

Moments of the past
do not last:
kicking leaves
in stormy-autumn
tumbling heaps, red, gold and brown
deep-set colours all around
echoing the silent dread
of the silent tread
of the day of the dead.

A memory-lost, a memory-found,
storm-tossed words abound, 
all around,
words
thought
but never said:
regrets of a life misled
as dust-motes float
around my head,
like gossamer thread,
or glittering words in a spider’s web:

Say hello to stormy autumn,
its mists and ghosts and rain,
its wind and storm
scatter dreams;
swirl the leaves of stormy autumn,
blows me back to kingdom-come.

Pray silence all:
hear the echo
of lost time’s
beating drum
reborn as shaman,
we make prescience an art,
by seeing through
the defenceless human heart.

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