On the close of Summer’s day, the year is moving on.
Cold nights. Mornings awaken to a hovering mist
Stooks stand in piles awaiting their fate. Mice move in.
Scarecrows are looking untidy, unkempt, straw-less smile.
The corn, like the scarecrow; earless. Furrows are ploughed.
Crops are being harvested, cleaned and stored to feed through
The cold hard winter. Days are getting shorter, nights longer
Trees being coppiced, blue smoke rises deep inside the forest,
Logs being burnt, charcoal remains, an age old practice.
The leaves are turning, shyly falling to the floor.
A festival of flowers adorn each church and heart, chants
To the Green man, as cider is poured on the floor in thanks
For a good harvest, corn rings are given to seal a new love.
A time to rejoice and give thanks for this heavenly gift…