i stood in the garden,
face held aloft,
nose slightly twitching
at the change
borne on the skirts of
the wind that came
billowing through the trees.
the detritus of summer:
oak leaf, cob web, grey twig,
dust upon dust.
Like so many unwanted nannies,
clutching hats and
inside out umbrellas,
taking their leave(s).
In earnest does God keep His House.
(Okay, so Shelley said it much better:)
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver, hear, oh, hear!
-Percy Blake Shelley (1792-1822)
photo credit: etolane