but is autumn the emptiest of seasons?
The north sea winds do not favour it,
but in the town I call home, it is sacred.
I revel as my lungs fill,
with a glorious mingle of scents,
the warming wisp of a farmers bonfire,
the gentle decay of surplus chestnuts,
and as I tread this carpet of oak and pine,
my old friend nostalgia drops by.
A thin haze rests on the air,
finally the world sees through my eyes,
and the gentle pinch of winter coming,
only stokes the home fires further.