In the name of being brave, here is my latest poetry offering, just finished this morning.   I always do quite a bit of poetry writing in the autumn – something about the change in seasons speaks to me, and even if I don’t actually share the poetry, I usually write at least one that I am happy enough with to keep!   The current offering I am reasonably pleased with.  It perhaps needs a little polishing in places but for now, it needs to be let be for a while….


Autumn steals in with the twilight, well hailed

by rowan witch clad in storms and bloody berries,

standing sentry by the path, and moon kissed birch,

maiden slender, silver girdled, golden leafed,

while by the river, willow casts streamers to the wind,

waving summer farewell, as

leaves gild gladly to gold, copper and bronze, then

cast forth to dance slowly to muddy rest.

Berries adorn the boughs, greening first, then

blushing crimson, as the tidal wave

washes across the land, a sea change

clad in mist and moonlight,

and shadow’s fall, moon rising silver, and mud

underfoot along the trackways, the storm in me

rising, always rising, tangling with the skies and

reflecting autumn’s wild glory. The child in me

seeks the moon in rainfall puddles, stars

in dew bound branches,

paints cave pictures in mud and elderberry, and

walks the trackways eternally into autumn.


Clad in fallen leaves and storm tears,

I wend my wildling way through the windswept woods,

feet joyeous on the land, and the day wanes,

sun fading, a grief to some,

but O! How beautiful the evening,

Twisting shadows lengthening lovingly across the land,

and moon rising silver, calling forth

night’s children, puck and pooka,

and witch flying across the velvet skies.

Clouds roll back, and trees

reach for winged wights, grasping greedily,

and we scatter, shrieking, hands reaching

eagerly for the moon once more, no longer

buried beneath a snag in cold waters,

lost and lonely, forgotten.

She watches, distant, delighted,

and we dance and writhe,

ducking and diving amidst the gloom,

and in the autumn’s tender gleaming,

wildling shadows shift and bloom.


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