Autumn’s Clammy Fingers
Misty, clammy, chilly, gloomy and dim.
Promise of the darkness to come.
The land slowly dies to brown.
The grey sky drizzles its tears.
The jolly reds, oranges and yellows
Soon fade into an earthy dun
The crisp drifting into soggy heaps
Graves of the fallen weary warriors.
The birds now hesitant in trees
Suspend their song to conserve energy
As the skies gather their fury
And the air leaches its heat.
The world waits in suspended breath
For the onslaught of the winter
Anticipating the blast of icy exhalation
And the dire battle to survive.
Opher – 28.10.2023
I don’t like autumn with its clammy fingers of death. The warmth of the earth fades into damp and cold. Death is on the wind. Death is in the piles of dropped leaves. Death is in the icy fingers of early morning with its promise of freezing ground.
I don’t like this slow withdrawal of the warmth and sunshine; this retreat into the drear.
I don’t like this hiatus before the big freeze.
The reawakening seems so far away.
Bring me life!