Words by A Wensley

The Spirit of (False) Autumn Autumn arrived this morning, too early; A ghost-glance shiver-slip of a woman Wrapped in a crisp crumpled-leaf cloak, The drought of dry spells visible in her sun-scorched skin. She walks silently through the hedgerows Summer's late-born Sister casting shadows over seed heads, Rendering their future fertility futile. Product of the burning-turning skies She is grey, haggard as an Ash in dieback, She looks through me, haunted, The promise of colour we so often seek, Nay EXPECT of true Autumn,  Stands falsely before me, drained of all joy, Her Amazon-box-like existence a scorching of brown, Life-eaten, beaten. I turn in my doorway to send her away, But wait! I watch as a rogue gust of wind tousles her reddening hair like a lover, Teasles reach out to brush her, And, beneath the folds of her receeding green skirt I see her scarlet calves, Dripping with blood, from burnished brambles - She lives! Quick, give her water, drink dear friend, drink! Autumn arriv...