Full of energy.
Tired all the time.
Season of change.
Season of life and death.
Season of being.
Season of now.
Because tomorrow it is gone.

2 thoughts on “Autumn

  1. In Dedication Robert Graves

    All saints revile her, and all sober men
    Ruled by the God Apollo’s golden mean–
    In scorn of which I sailed to find her
    In distant regions likeliest to hold her
    Whom I desired above all things to know,
    Sister of the mirage and echo.

    It was a virtue not to stay,
    To go my headstrong and heroic way
    Seeking her out at the volcano’s head,
    Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
    Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
    Whose broad high brow was white as any leper’s,
    Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
    With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.

    Green sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
    Will celebrate the Mountain Mother,
    And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
    But I am gifted, even in November
    Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
    Of her nakedly worn magnificence
    I forget cruelty and past betrayal,
    Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

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