Autumntide

Autumntide

Its Autumntide.
The wind rushes across the velvet fields,
Caressing the bare soil with airy fingers.
It brings cold with it,
Frost and chilly mornings.
Trees shed their leaves,
Red and gold, bronze and brown,
Drifting in flights of glittering colour,
Before settling, quiltlike,
Tucking in the ancient trees
And slender saplings.

Fruit is on the hedgerow,
Purple clumps of elderberry,
Hawthorn berries that garland the hedges in merry red colour.
Juicy blackberries, with thorns reaching to snag unwary fingers.
The harvest is being brought in –
Golden grains for bread,
And fruit and nut, root and vegetable,
The fields ploughed with iron,
Cold as the north wind, bringing winter’s snow.
The muddy track glows with puddles,
And spiderwebs hang,
Gossamer with frost and water diamonds.
The edge of the land softened by a fine veil
Of misty rain.

Cold fingers in woollen gloves,
And misty breath on the autumn air.
Brilliant sunshine,
And sycamore seeds spiral down.
Scurrying squirrels bury hazel nuts for winter and
Children play with conkers,
Bright gems on bits of string amidst the red faces and the laughing.
Fingers reach for tasty blackberries,
Pulling back, and reaching again,
Mindful of the pie to be made for the treat later.
Rosehips bright red and glowing with colour,
To be picked and made into a spiced drink
To ward off the winter’s cold.
Apple spice floats dreamily on the chilly air,
And the sweet scent of jam mingles
With the fresh scent of warm new bread.

Open the door and step in,
The house is warm,
Muddy boots and damp jackets hang,
Steaming,
And the house is scented with
Fresh new bread,
Drying herbs,
The spice of jam and pickles.
On the stove, rosehips bubble.
Autumntide is here.