Rustling winds expose your frame,
To cold, damp and dreaded name.
Wind scars slash at dying summer,
Rain re-echo’s the little drummer.
Middle aged gnarled to aching spur,
Boorish zephyr chills a dreaded allure.
Stooped, naked, shamed to despair,
You gather your strength. Send a flare.
Of gold, ochre, saffron flames of red,
A last stand, against the gelid dread.
As Cu Chulainn fought to the bitter end,
You flicker gleam my autumn friend.
S.de B© 2012.