Turn in

Turn in, turn in, the leaves dance and sway
like terminal lovers beguiled by decay.
In ochre and amber the autumnal edge 
with coloured collapse keeps its annual pledge. 
The now lonely branches, stripped down, unadorned, 
hail heaven with bare limbs, green garments yet mourned. 
Their stilled presence marks time to rest and repair, 
to lean into winter’s quiet swathe and prepare
our cloistered hands, hushed minds and poor yielding hearts,
in silence of wholeness to be set apart. 
11th November 2021, Wiltshire, England. 


Leaves fall into dark soil 
like heavenly desires unfulfilled. 
Bare branches reach for the softening light,
exposed in austere form. 
Bruised gatherings of clouds press in
as the autumnal release yields. 
Every withered blossom
accepts its place. 

On the cusp

The autumnal ritual of submission unfurls. 
Matter collapses into matter, 
and frost embraces the curve of the hills. 

The trees release their fertile garments, 
laying themselves bare. 
Bony limbs carry silent, unseen buds

and visions of blossoms to come. 

With their subdued palettes of colour, 
the fallow meadows join to declare:
no birth, no death - 
only changing forms.