Scent the wood-smoke in the air; the smoke which is not without fire.

Firelight in leaves still on trees,

and the knowing that autumn has arrived.

Autumn: 'mists and mellow fruitfulness' in poetry -
this autumn mists is the dying breath,

long exhalation of hope held through summer

that life could still be joyous, maybe.

And the realisation that it never was: joyful.

Happy at times but never full of joy, pain

always hedging-in the edges

of unspoken depths, depressions, and

unseen hurts, bandaged in love and loyalty

hiding shame-secret wounds

A warm spring day, he walked, slowly

wrapped up against his own-felt cold

gold-yellow skin finally bringing him in

to medics, finally

listening

A warm spring day, he stepped away

coldly

alone

he lay

The cruellest month, the poets say.

And so then there was a summer that turned

not cold into a crying out coping season

but a long hot summer, humid with unexpected love…

and hope

returning.

But now autumn has arrived

and there is wood-smoke in the air

a cleaning scent of burning

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