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 tilth that our experience will create. So, when our time is done, we too will leave sewn seeds.