The day opens in a blush of light,

a clean, tender luminosity 

that caresses the fields awake.

The air is sharp, but not yet unkind,

it carries the scent of decaying leaf mould,

of hedgerows swelling with sweet riches,

sloes, purple-dark,

berries glistening like delicious drops of wine.

 

The trees are only just beginning to show their fatigue from the summer sun,

Leaves, gold edging the green,

russet flames rising shyly

through the crowns of beech and maple.

It is a promise being delivered of

a beauty not yet spent,

caught in the rift between seasons.

 

Here, at this time of equinox 

the sun pauses,

half in summer’s hand,

half in winter’s gaze.

And we walk within it,

our shadows long and slender on the lane,

our hearts full of this fleeting symmetry,

the quiet romance of the world

turning, always turning,

toward another kind of light.