Scent the wood-smoke in the air; the smoke which is not without fire.
Firelight in leaves still on trees,
and the knowing that autumn has arrived.
Autumn: 'mists and mellow fruitfulness' in poetry -
this autumn mists is the dying breath,
long exhalation of hope held through summer
that life could still be joyous, maybe.
And the realisation that it never was: joyful.
Happy at times but never full of joy, pain
always hedging-in the edges
of unspoken depths, depressions, and
unseen hurts, bandaged in love and loyalty
hiding shame-secret wounds
A warm spring day, he walked, slowly
wrapped up against his own-felt cold
gold-yellow skin finally bringing him in
to medics, finally
listening
A warm spring day, he stepped away
coldly
alone
he lay
The cruellest month, the poets say.
And so then there was a summer that turned
not cold into a crying out coping season
but a long hot summer, humid with unexpected love…
and hope
returning.
But now autumn has arrived
and there is wood-smoke in the air
a cleaning scent of burning
