The front door closes,
the lock twists shut with
a certain sense of finality,
as the journey begins.
Stepping out into Autumn.
Feet falling on rain-spotted flagstone
as though in mourning
the sky has shed a tear, or three.
There is a bite in the air
that creeps into even the thickest coat,
a piercing reminder the sun is setting…
Browned leaves crack
under shoe leather.
Those jettisoned early, falling soundlessly
whilst others, yellowing, curling, cling
desperately to branch, to life.
Then, without word, the light is gone.
Winter comes. All is still.
Only the cross, atop the church spire,
dares to puncture ever greying sky,
to proclaim in sacred dignity
‘It shall soon be Spring’