October

October

Iron cauldron 

deep in the belly of the overgrown yard.

Black base wreathed in brambles

and damp, damp leaves,

steam uncoiled from the rim

sharply smelling of 

spent fireworks

ash of dead bonfires

and bygone era perfume.

Beside it stood October

skin a map of dry autumn earth

spine bent like the old trailer behind her,

pot stirred with fractured handle

eyes heavy with crushing fatigue,

someone who coaxed the seasons 

to turn for a thousand years

ancient sorcery now exhausting 

trembling dirt-caked hand

finally stopped stirring

blew gently into the rising vapour,

grey fog out 

blanket the world in frost.