Autumn

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Autumn, England's most precious gem,
Never hidden,
Nor compromising;
Complete and ever brilliant.
That great slow fire that finally consumes our doubts
And sorrows:
For Summer had promised so much
But it was Autumn that delivered our longing,
Who proved most faithful:
Autumn, season most true,
Our delight and first bonfire of darker days to come.
In you hope lingers on,
Spellbound and alive,
Time and distance collide
And perfection is resolved.

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Amidst the leaves they play,
While the forces of grey
Try to wring out the day's last colours.
Yet those forces only succeed in compressing
The final bands of day
Into startling colour:
Igniting the last hours of 
Daylight into an even greater
Display of intensity.

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Voices carry and everywhere
The trees are sighing.
You don't hear it, until you listen,
And then there it is:
A waterfall of sound hidden
All around you,
A stirring in every leaf,
A whisper of delight
At every movement the rarefied wind makes.

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Grasses shiver
While leaves scuttle;
This is no hollow season:
It is every season
Alive at last in its passing,
Vibrant and resolute to its very end,
Every shoot and branch of life,
Here now, alive and true.

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DG