Between the seasons of autumn and winter
Where fragrant rot
And preservative frost
Mingle with the mist
When the fringes of nocturne sweep
But give time out for last minute preparations
Hibernation yawns comfort
The long rest appeals to some
But for others –
Throaty coughs and sore joints
The transition to lesser light
And the long long night
The winter’s voice is hard as crust
And takes the leaves of withered rust
Into the final foray
Yet still the colours hold fast
To deny the inevitable
To deny the decay
Between the seasons
The turning moment of earth’s bequest
The ill gotten stranger
And the turned away guest
By Allan Buchan
The Bugle 