October Poem

[Ca ne fait rien]

Post-equinox nights roll
across the Wolds,
breathe their misty souls
through the open door.


The dog demands to dance
on air heavy with longing,
chase crackle-leaves
rife with scent of excitements.

Rooks return early now
to bare roosts, circle
like swirling tea-leaves
silhouetted on skydrifts,
a crescendo of ecstasy
before the long sleep.

We light fires
and gather ourselves
inwards.