Autumn has arrived. Last night, plagued by restless sleep, I found myself unable to surrender to slumber. Instead, I toyed with words, letting them tumble and twist, a late-night distraction born of weary thoughts. What began as a simple exercise in the haze of sleeplessness soon transformed, and somewhere amidst that nocturnal rambling, a poem emerged.
And so, here we are: the prose that birthed it first, followed by the poem that lay hidden within.
As autumn descends upon the English countryside, a solemn quietude takes hold of the land. The woods, once teeming with life and vibrant song, now breathe in whispered tones, each gust of wind a fragile sigh. Dying leaves, like the tears of some ancient sorrow, fall slowly from their boughs, painting the earth in hues of russet and gold – a brief and poignant reminder of the summer’s fire now gone cold.
The sun, too, seems to retreat, its golden rays dimmed by veils of mist and gathering clouds. What once was a brilliant blaze in the sky is now but a faint glow, struggling to pierce the grey shroud that cloaks the heavens. The meadows, where once flowers swayed in warm, gentle breezes, are now steeped in shadow, their once-vivid colours dulled beneath the weight of approaching frost.
Through the barren trees, the wind moves like a mourner in the night, its voice carrying the echo of loss. It hums through hollow branches and over the withered grass, a lament for the fleeting beauty that has vanished with the turning season. Autumn, it seems, is a dying breath – an epilogue written in gold and crimson, soon to fade into winter’s pale oblivion.
And yet, in this melancholy, there is a strange and soulful grace. The mists roll in like the folds of a forgotten dream, blurring the edges of the world, softening every harsh line, every jagged memory. Time itself seems to slow, as if nature pauses to reflect on its own quiet undoing. The heart of autumn, though heavy with the sorrow of what must end, beats still, each moment a soft sigh in the endless stream of time.
As the final leaf falls, spiralling gently to the earth, there comes the realisation that autumn’s touch, though mournful, is not without beauty. It is a kiss – soulful, doleful, and tender – pressed upon the brow of the earth, a reminder that even in the fading light, there is a kind of splendour. For within autumn’s embrace, we are reminded of the delicate balance between life and death, joy and sorrow, and the bittersweet grace that lingers in the space between.
The woodland whispers low in fading breath,
As dying leaves, like silent tears, descend;
They murmur of the coming cold, of death,
And in their rustling sigh, the seasons blend.
A withered sun retreats behind the haze,
Its gilded rays now pale as ghostly gloom;
Where once the meadow danced in summer’s blaze,
Now shadows stretch across the earth’s cold tomb.
The brittle air is laced with twilight’s kiss,
And winds, like mourners, moan through empty trees;
Each fleeting note a dirge of what we miss,
As nature bows to autumn’s final pleas.
Oh, fleeting beauty, lost in crimson’s fall,
How brief the fire that kindles in the sky;
The rolling mists enfold us, one and all,
And whispered winds, like spectres, softly cry.
Beneath the sky’s dark canopy of blight,
The world unravels in a mournful dream;
And though the hours fade to endless night,
The heart of autumn sighs in silent stream.
Yet as the final leaf drifts in abyss,
I feel at last, her soulful, doleful kiss.
Wording 