This hilly land, this land
Stretching and jumping and jagged
From sea to sea
Is putting out its last beauty 
In a burst of glory orange and green 
A sigh of completion, a dying season
Falling asleep and closing on
Sap and seed.
Steady, quietly keen, it lapses into dream
And a cold pulse slows 
Until winter's run be done.

In russet, ochre, brown, 
The countless leaves are flitting down
And berries red as setting sun
Blaze for birds and squirrels
And the little towns settle
Deeper into clefts among the hills.

The still, grey air resolves their
Small spiral offerings, their graceful
Fires, their hopes of warmth
And food through frost and chill.

Mighty hands are turning this
Globe on its
And all hearts can
Feel that deep vibration 
As all things living 
Go to sleep and hope
For birth to come.

Emerald and mossgreen,
Lemon, lime and beetroot,
Rowanblood, beech and oak,
Twig, leaf and root
Conserve their sap and snooze
Reserve their sticky, hoarded life
for Spring's freshening.
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