Under the blanket of Autumn
apple trees flourish,
their gift to the world presented
sweet perfume, lingering, enticing the flesh of
Nature to partake of their labour.
The leaves, regal and elderly
fall like ghost soldiers to the pine-needled
ground, self sacrificed for their own
unknown cause and reason.
This sylvan space, this green
frozen and locked in its beauty
provide many an artist or poet
with inspiration and well as free insanity,
a slow evolution, one that can not
be taken lightly, refusing to acknowledge
the ever changing and polluting outside,
a fear that lies deep rooted and safe from
Is this place the whole of existence?
Should I be its messenger, a John the Baptist poetic
to warn the world of an imminent change,
a change to green, to flowers forever giving
their scent to overpower and kill,
of trees, golden and red, that whisper
through their branches, luring people away
under guises of comfort of Autumn?
This space, sacred, comes with longing
of souls, a desire to capture, and a feeling of lost.
And who am I who should care so
of this wood, this place of maddening beauty,
this Autumn tinged sanctuary?
I am of it, born from it,
dead because of it, living forever through it.
I am the autumn, leaves so golden and frail
scents with no definition and clean
eyes multicoloured and far reaching
littered with apples, the fruit of Avalon,
my soul the result of those who dared to love
too much this place; here I sit
under the blanket of Autumn.