Beyond the Equinox

 

The land sleeps,

furrowed, cold and still.

Each field edge mourns

in widow’s weeds.

The flocks keep silence

on the hill,

while nature weeps

tomorrow’s seeds.

 

Penitent

in golden cloak,

the woodland

whispers overhead

and through the mist,

like incense smoke,

sheds slow confetti

for her dead.

 

No birdsong

breaks these solemn days -

wreathed in cobweb,

edged with frost.

The hedge,

a thorny garland lays,

in tribute to

the season’s lost.

 

This tired landscape

bows her head

in memory of

her verdant birth.

In jewelled robe

she bears her dead,

with reverence,

to the waiting earth.