The Glowering Mists of Autumn

 

As I travel life's journey I'm often-times struck

By a vision both novel and possibly true; that serenity

In a dangerous world without luck,

Is impossible; but is there a temporal divinity?

 

Perhaps the root causes of wonder and joy

Really are in the sky, or on Dante's fine peak,

Or my fireside, where the dance won't annoy

In the company of leopard or she-wolf; their sleek

 

And soft chatter of pride, lust, and fell greed;

Then I reach for the Crossing, where river fights land

With the guttering slash of a wild horse stampede;

But the river of life must in time shrink to sand.

 

Historians follow the ghosts of the past

To grasp the vain promise of uncertain futures;

This resembles a hunting for soft hands to clasp,

Merely finding the dewclaws of dangerous creatures.

 

As I grow older, Autumnal days shorten,

And the scent of the woodlands slowly encroaches,

While its trees fall silent like a whispered distortion

Reflecting my soul as my fortune approaches.

 

So far from a state of grace is this life,

Nonetheless, and rather than merely content,

I'm drawn ever closer to darkening strife,

Which the sky will not light, and whose cruelty's spent.

 

Within grey-lands of nature, in anguish and mourning,

Real as the last lion, in its last golden cage,

My fate is regret for ignored signs of warning:

Beware of the glowering mists of my rage,

 

And beware the glowering mists of Autumn.

 

Chris Hubbard

Perth

2017.