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.