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Too Beautiful

On the land they call Linley
That once was a wasteland
That, underfoot, is still,
The frost, being unset by her
Bejewelled the grass.
The near-distant harshness of cars
Surrounded me
As I stood on the summit
Looking south
Being warmed
By her heat.
The bright blue sky
Was the wash on which
She painted herself
And her portrait
Her face
Was too beautiful to see.

Autumn

Autumn.
The change-time.
The living but dying time
of fruitfulness
and listlessness.
Looking back on
summer gone
and spring so far away;
waiting for
the cold bones of winter
to wrap us in its
fleshless grip.
This passing
from now to then;
from what was
to what is
to what will be;
this unstoppable,
unending change,
a ceaseless wonder,
more than at any other
time of the year
sets us in the moment;
in the now of being;
in the knowing
that what we are
is nothing,
an instant
already gone.
And the relief
of letting go
is immense.