In the month of October the leaves change themselves into many colours
And all round my neighbourhood from branches they soon drop like tears
As sadly I look to the distance hills that seem to grow further away by day
Obscured by the ever growing houses and cars replacing crops in the fields
One day it felt like ten thousand leaves fell about by my head as I pondered
With a mist descending with a quickening pace Photoshopping out the hills
And a gentle breeze was replaced by an angry gust of Mother Nature’s rage
Even the birds seemed frightened of her so kept their songs to muted grey
My eyes wandered left and right as watched the destruction she caused
But my thoughts were elsewhere lost in thought of those now forever gone
A father, a friend and a great uncle too all now stars in the evening skies
Even the chaos she caused would not change the internal mess I now felt
In this constantly changing world the view from my window now tarnished
Emptiness replaced where the leaves had once sat among the song birds
But like the soldiers of Flanders Field now lying on the ground in blood red
Humans and Mother Nature fighting to keep control that each feel their own
Too many have swapped the colourful life for that of autotuned human grey
Follow blindly like a sheep that can be manipulated into doing another’s work
But now many are awakening to this each dawn with their swords ready
And on Mother Nature’s side they will fight to keep this world in balance
In the month of October the leaves change colour but life on Earth carries on
And the armies evergreen trees protect us from Jack Frost’s chilling laugh
Humans are only one of the characters in this play not the star and director
So let us let take a back seat and enjoy the show with the others not alone.
Many trees of the forests are now ablaze with fires,
But the flames will never burn their leaves,
One by one Mother Nature painted with her brushes,
In every shade of red, yellow and orange.
Most get caught in a melancholy duel with the wind,
Sounding like a plucked harp’s many strings.
All leaves hope not hear the fatal G’s trap door open,
As automatically drops them to the ground.
Some leaves stand by on guard always in army green,
But never in wanton jealousy, hate or envy.
For these are the chosen ones to protect from Mr Frost,
With his chilling laughter turning all white.
For when he laughs the whole world shakes in terror,
Even human teeth chatter in fear of his name.
Others go to sleep to hide from his malevolent shrills,
Only to wake when the other leaves return.
The guardian trees are not alone in protecting the Earth,
Hidden are a secret air force ready to strike.
Sat high among the branches are birds in a chorus line,
Keeping their ears open for his opening aria.
So they can swoop down onto his long wrinkled fingers,
Pecking to make little holes through the skin.
And drown out his laughter with their harmonious song,
Filling his whitewashed landscapes with light.
The autumnal opera opens with the air biting like a bitter lemon on dry lips and the air smelling of decaying leaves and wood smoke. A prima donna sings an aria that touches almost every leaf, painting them every shade of red, yellow and orange; each colour matching the notes of her song. This is then echoed by a chorus throughout the land, turning forests to fire with colour. At the same the daily rhythm goes from legato to staccato, as the day length gets shorter, which in turn makes the leaves fall like ghost notes as few hear the sound of them falling. The crunch underfoot as walk through them is like listening a plucked cello playing, which is at times drowned out by the violins mimicking the sounds of human traffic. Then as the final note is sung, trees stand bare, and the theatre empties till all is silent. Well at least until Jack Frost sings his melancholy blues next season.
A phoenix once sat among the dust and burnt ashes,
Licking her old wounds and mending deep gashes.
Light teased and laughed as tricked her tired eyes,
Sending her stumbling as she drowned in her cries.
Trapped in a cage by body but soul was always free,
Voice muted but hoping to find the hidden magic key.
So every day she stitched so the broken wings mend,
And dreaming her Groundhog Days would finally end.
Then one day her dreams showed a path to follow,
So she gave those that blocked her way the elbow.
Finally ready to fly high and begin her new flight,
To the man in the moon who would hug her tight.
So when you look to the autumnal evening’s sky,
Never forget like her that we all have wings to fly.
As she scatters her colours on to the leaves below,
Into reds and yellow setting the world a fiery glow.
The trees are aflame with red, orange and yellow across the land, for today marks the Samhain ball. All season long the deciduous trees have prepared for this day, changing their leaves in celebration. All because today signals the end of the year to the natural world, as a new year starts tomorrow and will winter begin her song, a bittersweet and tearful lament.
Some humans spend the day in celebration of their ancestors past and those who left this year, making bonfires to match the glow from the trees, feasting and dancing till dawn to bring in the new year. Others dress up in costumes from witches to vampires and ghosts to trick or treat the neighbours with a song or dance, hoping to be rewarded for their efforts.
Whilst other animals, from squirrels to turtles and bears are also busy today, running around making their last minute plans as with the coming of winter marks the start of their deep sleep. All fear the laughter of Jack Frost, a hollow chill that freezes all that hear it and they don’t want it to be them he turns to ice forever. Remember nothing is safe from his laughter.
However, to keep the world is safe, some trees remain green, the evergreens. They act as the world’s guard from Jack Frost’s laughter, protecting all from hills and rivers, to pigs and horses who choose not to sleep but stay awake, is it insomnia or choice it is uncertain. As humans choose to carry on, till they realise even they are not immune to his laugh.
Colour bursts have exploded all over the city, the trees are ablaze with autumnal fire. Soon one by one they will fall to the ground, like a thousand memories of this year now almost over. But they leave behind a green of guard to protect us from the bitter finger of Jack Frost. As once he starts to laugh and point, no creature on Earth is immune from his white brush and song.
I am looking out of my window, watching metallic animals charging through the concrete jungle, tamed like wild animals in a circus by the self-proclaimed kings of this jungle, like all other living things in this world they want to control and own them. They are self-proclaimed as their egos are so big; the shelters they build for rest are grand and fill with objects that serve no purpose other than they feel the necessity to own them. One such object is a black box that sits in a room meant for living, which is ironic as the black box means they do not live but worship it like a false god giving it praise each day rather than see what is outside the concrete jungle they’ve created and the walls that block the daylight from shining.
This false god they believe what it tells them, when in reality it is all carefully orchestrated to appeal to their egos and desires as much as their love and empathy, making sure they invest their emotions again and again in this false god as believe informs educates and entertains them. They react not with their fellow kings with conversation but reach for smaller boxes to complain and praise, under a false belief they can change the future despite the fact the script is already written, all was planned years before, and they are merely players in a movie themselves. Some remove the false god, knocking down the walls of concrete to rediscover the multi-coloured and multi-sensory it hides; like Neo in the move “The Matrix” it feels like they have taken the red pill and awoken from deep sleep. Where as many continue unknowingly or unwanting to acknowledge what they see take the blue pill as rather have the comfort the false god brings.
I have had enough concrete jungle, I prefer to sit among the autumn leaves listening to their stories and songs than listen to the autotuned songs and false stories that the kings of the concrete jungle tell. This world is incredible, the trees of different shades with birds singing 101 songs as the wind tickles their branches and rivers do not run but massage the wounds of the mountains and forests. Take a hammer to break down the wall of concrete or smash the glass of the window in the room of living to begin to live. Pick up the telephone or write a letter, create something new, be it a pot of lentil soup or cakes with butterflies on them to a painting of the view from the broken glass to a song celebrating your love for another.