The winds of change are closing in, a whispered swansong on its wing,
Not so loud as to cause a stir, but a listless lion with a languid purr,
His hunger weaned on summer’s breast that’s filled and sated now at rest,
And a golden mane once scorched by sun is fading now for it’s begun.
Shades of olive and forest green, leaves that dull and lose their sheen.
Radiant browns and orange hues replace the old with shades of new.
A scarf of gold and red dry leaf is tied so loose they fall beneath,
To lay a blanket under feet, that’s thick and deep and soon replete.
The north wind comes with battle cry, a mournful moan and a soft felt sigh,
A lonely, wild, majestic blast, that hurries forth the fears of past.
Mournful murmurs snake around to shake the boughs that dance on ground,
It strips the trees of all their glories, changes tales and alters stories.
Moonlight rises early evening and bids farewell to the daylight leaving,
Shadows follow without sound, they can’t be caught, they can’t be found,
Through the glows of bonfires spent, come the ghosts of which I’d dreamt,
Witches, ghouls and demons too, they come with the wind, I know it’s true.
Darkened whispers on your breath, tales of horror and tales of death.
The wind it blankets all around, it fuels the fear and obscures the sound,
It taps the branches at your window and makes you cower from under pillow,
The Autumn wind you can depend, will awake the lion and he’ll be no friend.
