When thistledown clouds the air, Autumn won’t have long to wait. Dandelions have lost their hair, Left with a stem and a bald pate. When at last September’s here, You’ll know this is back-end o’ year.
Days get short and nights close in, The sun no longer climbs so high. Flocks of rooks make such a din. Bracken leaves turn gold and die. Then you’ll know September’s here, And now this is back-end o’ year.
Hello Hills. Not seen you ’round for a gloomy while. Had rain on rain with dark grey skies in a tumbled pile. And clouds so low, I’m sure they dragged the bottom of their skirt. Right across our soggy field in all the muck and dirt.
Through sodden air, we couldn’t see the far side of the beck. Just raindrops driving, slanting down when I looked out to check. Yet, there you are, back in your place, now the rain is done Looking fresh and newly washed, stretched lazily in the sun.
Yarrow or Milfoil. Known to all since ancient times. A plant of magic power but easy to overlook. As an oracle often used in Eastern climes. Confucius took, from your stalks, the laws in his book
Woundwort, a healing balm when fights with sword and shield Leave men bruised and battle-scarred from glory’s affray. Achilles did heal his host on Troy’s battlefield With your leaf and stalk kept crushing defeat at bay.
The summer brings the fullness to all of your ambition. Your seeds are ripe, a time for rest, your work complete. You strove with all at your command, you asked for no condition. Tomorrow’s seeds you leave behind for time’s defeat.
We mortals too, will give our all and ask but naught of Fate. But grow within our chosen earth which, with our deeds, We enrich the compost that our experience will create. So, when our time is done, we too will leave sewn seeds.
Fox Gloves, Folk’s Gloves, fairy fingers dress. Woodland Folk, they have their ways that we can only guess. Best not to talk too loud around their fairy rings. Look away, don’t mention them and speak of other things.
Ash tree, Oak tree, Rowan – Devil’s bane. Ash tree roots go down to hell. Oak tree, heal my pain. Branch of the Rowan, keep our threshold clear. Bad luck and grief and woe may not enter here.
My first is in stalk and also in stem. My second is me, not you, him or them. My third is in toil but never in work. My fourth is in thrive but never in shirk. My fifth is in eels but just not in fish. My sixth is in rhubarb, a succulent dish. My seventh’s in wanting but never in need. My eighth and my ninth are common in deed. My tenth is in dirt and also in dust. Follow this rhyme, then guess it you must. Just look at the picture, the leaves are the clue, I’ve made it as simple as I can for you.
I’ve been in bed with the doctor and the antibiotics. It’s been a tight squeeze. I’ve not slept, not eaten. Don’t want to. No interest. And the weird dreams! Lucky I can’t remember most of them. The one that scared me half to death, was the one where I was in a party of slavers, making our way down through Africa from the lakes to our dhow, waiting to ship the slaves to the markets in Stone Town on Zanzibar. The slaves had been told by their chief that they would be shipped off to the Sultan of Oman’s palace, and live out their lives in luxury – so they didn’t give any trouble. We’d also picked up a nice couple of tusks and some slabs of fresh elephant meat as part of the deal. That was the trouble. We were moving as quietly as we could through that pitch dark African night to avoid ambushes and attacks by other slavers. Human eyes are amazing – but they must have some light! Then it started. ‘Cough.’ ‘Cough.’ You don’t live in Africa long without learning the sound of a lion. This one sounded an old male hunting alone – probably a man-eater. Couldn’t light torches without giving our position away – and you don’t stop a charging lion in the dark with a musket ball! All those weary miles through that still deep rich darkness ‘Cough’ now to this side now to that! My nerves were shattered by the time we caught sight of the welcoming fire our mates had built on the beach.
For some the first flowers of the year promise that Spring will come.
But woodland wild folk watch the world dance to a different drum.
For them, Spring flowers do naught but tell of Autumn fare unknown,
They care not how their future bread by nature’s hand is sown.
The leaves of Spring soft fed by rain find wild folk’s larder bare.
Yet hedgerow folk know Spring’s prudence is tempered yet with care.
For ivy will her berries show with bright green leaves displayed,
To ripen as the Spring moves on upon her branch arrayed.