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An old hymn to the season.
Smoke twirls and bends on the air and the fen, over brown leaves of the forest. The vacant lakeside glistens and shines, under the sky grey with sorrow. The floating of leaves and the whispers of trees, greet you as the day closes. As the sun meets the ground in silence you look around, tread through the frosty trail back to the misty veil into the night as autumn’s turning. Back on the path, you hear children laugh from the old run down schoolhouse. Their ghosts play on far— keep their past in a jar, waiting to find a new lifetime. The sounds soon all cease, as they begin the feast, of the year’s final harvest. The wind snaps at your face, strangely soft with frozen grace, spirits sing an antique song, dancing for the light of dawn— into the night as autumn’s turning. Your mind on the breeze echoed with the leaves soaring with ash from a pyre. Run by the west moon, guided by ancient runes, chasing the song of the witches. Your heart caught in youth, you find one sigh of truth, to take you from the darkness. Feel the voice of a distant choir— dirges on the wind. Go and see all the gathered phantoms— follow their sweet din. Inside the shrine they chant, in your soul, their cries implant memories of days since past, another life, deep and vast, upon this night as autumn’s turning.
© 2007 by Mike Smale. All rights reserved.
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