Others might see you as the omen before the oncoming storm.

The loud-mouthed, certain and confident callous bellow

That comes full of wind and withered joy before the year weeps and grows old

And turns young at heart Old Father Time into a dour, disabled dying fellow!

They might see you and rage as you do, all piss and wind,

Shaking their fists in frightened fury at what you may have wrought

And the golden amber hue fading as they recount who against they have sinned

Their conceit in conflict now chastised in thought.

 

October Winds blister against the blast furnace and catch your breath unaware.

You lower your head against the picked up dirt, drawn towards your eyes.

You swear the storm will stop but into its dying thoughts you will not stare

And you wriggle to keep warm ahead of the snow like dancing, weary flies.

Oh October, the purest of months, there is no game with you.

You are not like the mocking May who tempts but pulls the minutes away,

Nor June with its summer heat but days light spinning off to so few,

And December, in which the devouring logs throw dark images in which to pray.

 

October is the month in which cobwebs are carried to kingdom come,

Even if it means the spider hunts indoors.

The month signals the start of the end, March so far away

As Time creeps backwards, the folly of history being undone,

And Humanity fights against its mortal cause

But do not be burdened, October Winds are never here to stay.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.