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
…….