October

The river runs cold
on these autumnal morns,
majestic Maples
leaves stripped and torn;
bear witness to November,
the sleety scorn
winters icy dribble,
the carcass of the fuschia,
laid bare and forlorn.

Scarlet and gold
reign in the wood.
the world in hushed silence,
watch nature unfold;
as surely it should,
and while the forest folk forage,
Mother Natures’ brood,
the dens are prepared,
laden with pine cones and ferns,
all manner of food.

And into dreams
once again shall they dwell,
till the cruel winters winds,
have left hillside and dell,
and return them once more,
forever to dwell,
the cycle of life,
having drunk deep from the well.

Unto every season,
the poets say;
Unto every reason,
Unto every way.
Unto every new field,
Unto every new foray,
Unto every life,
Unto every day,
the only constant is, in fact, change.

My submission for Magpie Tales resting here