Death of Summer

The ghost of Autumn has come to haunt us once again
her wispy, greying hair dancing in the mellow sunlight

The rush of fresh, cool air through the open window;
the trees are wearing their golden hues again.

She whispers into my ear on foggy mornings:
‘Come find me where the ice and snow are hiding;
come along softly, don’t bring ill tidings’

She sings of dying, of rot, of darkness

She brings the Summer to an end, slaying John Barleycorn
with the scythe that she has sharpened on the rocks of her domain.

The ghost of Autumn brings us the bounty of fruit,
of rain,
of cold,
of death.