When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
It didn't occur to me until I was here that I would miss October in the northeastern USA. While August used to be my favorite month, with hot weather and the beckoning surf every single day, in my maturity I've come to appreciate October most of all. It's pleasant to watch the trees turn, to have the cool nights and the temperate days; to sit on the front porch of the rectory and wave at the folks driving by, or to sit on the patio of my own house, on stones I laid myself, listening to Art Pepper and reading Alan Watts.
Instead, I have spring in New South Wales, which is not such a bad thing, either. But, I'll miss October this year.