Days of the Crone

Alone I walk at misty dawn.
The dewdrops wet my feet.
Black, rampant slugs to paths are drawn,
No summer birds will eat.

Brown curlews chant their haunting cry,
Across the moor land waste,
Heath purple fades and bracken dies,
Short days come on apace.

White dragon’s breath the valleys fill,
Bright scarves and mufflers show.
Grey squirrel, sleepy, eat their fill
For soon may come the snow.

The sun’s red orb begins to climb
Till golden disc on show.
Dispels the mists and morning rime,
It’s autumn, don’t you know?

 

 

 

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