Autumn, 2026

Our feet are always coldest
right before the wading-in.

We swam that day, as the sun
sent up her watercolours, 
streaks of them in pink and blue
as if to drown 
			   the band of lead
that circled the horizon,
crest above its ashen belt.

Now I sit, and linger
as the burgundy leaves
are tossed and trembled,
and a cloud 
		       blurs over
the hill-perched houses.
Our lives, perhaps,
are vapour and leaves
in the inbound showers:
sad and smiling, tossed
and trembled, 
		          crowned
at last with dazzling life.

Our feet are always coldest
right before the wading-in.

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Photo by Sulene Loedolff

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