Early October 2015. (Revised).

It`s that time of year again.

Slugs in the pantry.
Snails underfoot.
The cracking of shells on moist evenings.
Dogs staring at an enlarged moon.

From time to time
a spider`s web will catch us off guard,
snagging a fine tangle of old lace
over scared faces
as though we were giant flies,
fit food for arachnids.

The nights are cold underworlds
unlit by frail stars
smudged by passing clouds.
We walk home slowly,
heads bowed into the drab dark
of deserted streets
razored by black rain.
This darkness overwhelms us,
cuts us to the quick.
It is more intense than the bleakest night
of the recent drowned out summer.

You name this season autumn,
the sad weeks haunted by Hades,
the days of the blood red leaf.

But I name this time the new spring,
the season of quiet beginnings
evolving deep in the earth,

the new year lurching towards birth
under our mud clogged footsteps

as we struggle back home in the dark.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 8th. - 9th. 2015.