Autumn Witch

Oh she is a trouble

With her arrival unannounced

Always early never late, perhaps an August Date.

She cools the summer engines

And grinds them to a halt,

Steadfast held tight, then starts her work in sight.

Her dry boned finger first

Waves the woods to fire

Tawny yellows, Crimson reds, a siren song of what lies ahead.

And summer attempts to persuade her

Driving hard precipitation

But autumn has gone and striped her breath, a kiss of death.

In skies the Great Geese gather

In V synchronicities

While on their backs Hummers hitch, hidden from the Autumn Witch.

Hawkweed hurry

Show your face

For Fireweed and Queen Anne's Lace and Pearly Everlasting.

 

We must invade her might

We cry out - stop!

With Mullein sticks ablaze we will make again summer days!

But she is well seasoned

In control of her time

And with adieu the locals tell, she will cast her autumn spell.

(C) Paul James. 2009

In The Woods

As we crossed the field and entered the woods there was no sound from the road. The October day had been full of rain, and the trees pulled the dampness close.

There wasn’t much to say. I mean, no one wanted to talk about Frances Howard’s murder, so we walked in silence. Up ahead past the curve someone smashed a pumpkin against a tree.

They said there was nothing Frances could do when the murderer came to her house. She was old and couldn’t get out of bed. But no one thought she would die like that. Her eyes carved into a permanent expression of fear.

And now, we had the fear. Everyone did.

When we got to the other side of the woods we saw the road ahead. A slender man with a razor smile stepped out onto our path.

We trembled.

“Even the young can never escape,” he said, his black eyes biting our cheeks. Then he handed us a picture.

It was of Frances Howard. Dead.

We shoved our way past him and ran out to the road. We didn’t stop running until we got to town. It was hard for us to catch our breath.

Then we looked at the picture again.

And it was a picture of us. In the woods.

Originally published by Black Poppy Review, October 2021. (This story is included in The Blue Hour – available on Amazon)

Autumn Arrives

Monday - September 22, 2025 @2:19 pm

From read poetry - We Grow Accustomed to the Dark - by Emily Dickinson

https://www.readpoetry.com/we-grow-accustomed-to-the-dark-by-emily-dickinson/