Season of mists
The cold autumn rain falls full in my face,
wet westerlies come with a trace of winter;
as I walk, I take account of my losses.
My mind drifts into the past:
a phantasmagoria of well-remembered faces
tumble into the valley of the shadow of death.
Phantoms afloat, all around me, looking quizzically
at the remains of a life long left or soonest parted.
The trees of this woodland path,
tossed by these wild Atlantic storms,
are a comfort to me,
as is my dog who walks with me.
Leaves tumble faster now, clutching onto branches,
resisting their fall into winter's icy embrace.