In the spirit of the most ephemeral season which now flees us (Autumn
that is, not Logosmas) ...

A room of eternal autumn
where boar dances to the strum
of a mandolin, making fingers numb.
The season so perfectly imbued,
in walls and wards and windows.

A leaf flits down.
Gently.
One of many.
Fleeting Aurum awes
amongst the trunks of brown.

Autumn percolates,
quietly;
gambols early.
Beauty's rush of red
and cascading orange fete.

Hickory sun-splash'd
in the morn.
The Divine adorn
spilling liquid light upon
carpet that the leafy tirade hash'd.

A room of eternal autumn
where boar dances to the strum
of a mandolin, making fingers numb.
Exhibiting in Mithraea's first tentative ray
which peeks between the barrening twigs.

As season's sun
strokes
away slumber's many cloaks.
Bleary eyed still
one takes the day at a run.

The basin coaxes,
gurgling,
in the corner burbling.
To the crisp waters one takes;
a moment which no longer perplexes.

As if the walls were trees
having dropped their leaves
and covered the floor in their golden eaves.
Waking up afresh in a bed,
Found: shrouded by veils, a figure.

Confusion abounds.
Who is that?!
Panic is begat
till realisation breaks
and familiarity makes its rounds.

There is wonder in
the eternal instance of the fall
Robbed of its transience.
So is there in the paus-ed process
of calming. Not panic, nor calm.

A room of eternal autumn
where boar dances to the strum
of a mandolin, making fingers numb.
Therein the inn, the falling walls
solidify back into a room
and the very last leaf,
it falls.

Composed by my hand on the 5th of Glacian 498 SAF.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Glacian, in the year 498 AF.