Beyond the October Gate

October lies beyond the final road,
behind an iron gate beneath the rain.
A bell hangs black above the entrance there,
and once you cross, you cannot cross again.

The road runs deep beneath the October sky,
where evening gathers long before the night.
The houses climb the hills in crooked rows,
their windows burning amber through the light.
Here every road belongs to October.
Here every door opens into its land.
The moon appears above the northern hill,
and seems to follow wherever you may stand.

A village waits beneath the dripping trees,
with narrow streets that wind from door to door.
The church stands watching from the highest rise,
while bells are heard though no one rings them anymore.
A bridge crosses the black October creek,
where pale reflections tremble in the rain.
Beyond it lies another part of town,
and every road that leads there leads again.

The farther in you walk, the stranger grows
the country that October keeps inside.
The afternoon grows dim beneath its clouds,
and dusk comes down before the sun can hide.
There are old houses leaning toward the road,
with upper windows dark against the gray.
There are long halls where portraits watch the walls,
and clocks that mark the hour they cannot say.

At last you reach a house beyond the town.
One window burns above the upper floor.
The October road runs straight toward its door,
as though the month itself has brought you there.
You enter, and the house becomes the land.
The hallway seems to stretch beneath your feet.
A book lies open on a table near the stairs,
with names of those who came along this street.

You read the names and turn another page.
The oldest dates are centuries apart.
The final page contains a single name,
and beneath it waits an empty mark.
You close the book, and from beyond the house
the bell begins to toll across the rain.
Its sound rolls through the October streets,
then calls you toward the road you came again.

You hurry back along the road you came,
yet find the road has vanished from the view.
The church has moved. The houses have changed places.
The bridge now spans a stream you have never known.
The road ahead divides beneath the moon,
and every branch leads farther from your own.
You choose the road that disappears uphill,
while distant bells repeat their hourless tone.

The October night grows deeper as you climb.
Below, the village fades into the rain.
At the summit stands another iron gate.
Beyond it lies another road and town.
A hundred windows shine beneath the rain,
and every light seems beckoning you down.
You turn and search for where the first gate stood,
yet find October stretching all around.

October stretches farther than the eye,
with towns and roads extending through the rain.
The gate is gone. September lies beyond it,
and you begin to doubt you knew the way.
The roads descend beneath the autumn sky,
the bells continue calling through the night.
Its doors will open farther as you go,
and every road will lead you out of sight.

For October is a place you can enter,
a place beyond the ending of the year.
You cross its gate beneath the autumn rain,
and find the country waiting for you there.