The Winter King Beckons


The last blackberries picked

by Michaelmas Day;

And sloes still to pick

by Old Michaelmas day;

There’s apples for the season

from Harvest through Autumn

As the bones of the Mare

with leaf-fall wane bare;

For now still she rides

though the Winter King beckons

And the shades of the season

will be bright with her riding

Then fade as she passes

while the song of her birds

is already dwindling;

The hues of the sunlight

filtered through rainshine

will glow as she goes

Through the rainbows of Autumn

diffused in the mists

which he’ll cast all about her 


Your Dedicatory Message