Spectre of the Dawn

The mist a spectre vanishes at the light morning’s touch, 

ethereal, ephemeral, corporeal, fades to nothingness 

a light which shows every greasy smudge on a clean window pane

you feel a warmth in its embrace against the chilled dawn air.

Autumn, a bounty brought forth against the coming cold winter

berries and hips, black and red scream, eat me, eat me, 

for soon we shall be gone, then all that shall remain is a 

hard frost on our blemished brown brittle leaves and barbed thorns,

but be wary, remember our thorns for we too shall survive winter.

Low the sun in the morning sky, casting a shadow of its former summer zenith self

forcing and lengthening the darkness of the reach, 

clings like the stench of bats in a cave to the earth below.

Begrudging of any light or warmth, malevolent it grows.

For in its darkness the verdant green ferns of high summer wither to shades of rust

Heather sheds its majestic purple mantle in favour of a paltory ochre tinge.

The air tastes different and the wind speaks of a time of mourning.

But for now let us rejoice in the light, 

remember some shall not see a pure light of Spring as it

dances through the dappled green of the reborn beech grove.