A poem for the season


Grey dawn filters through the falling leaves,
Pale and soft as life’s last breath. The whisper
Of the wind carries not your voice, but your
Absence: cold, a shivering chill of recognition.
The moon’s time-wrinkled face outlasts its welcome;
In spite of us who cling to what remains. The day,
Short and half-hearted barely warms the soil,
Beneath which lie the hopes of ages past.
And if I call to you, who hears?
The dwindling forests, or the endless sky.
A day like any other, a thousand years ago,
Others and still others breathed the same.
A thousand years from now, a day like this again:
The cycle turns, the centre slowly fades.


About Wrycrow

Queer nerdy Pagan librarian, training with Druid College UK.
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