A reverie to mark the end of September by Helen B Cruickshank.


Russet bracken, a spider spinning,
White tails bobbing in burrows of sand;
A finch is feeding on silver thistle,
A late bee settles upon my hand.

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Still are the woods in the heat of the autumn,
Fearless the rabbits, so still I lie
Happy to see the spider spinning,
While dreams like down go floating by.

A golden leaf from a yellowing birch-tree
Softly falls on the spider’s thread;
The silken line on the frond is broken
The coloured finch from the thistle fled.

Stiffly I rise from the bracken 
The rabbits scuttle in panic flight;
The golden moment I held is over,
The air gone chill, and the sun less bright.

The cares of living come back in legions,
The glamour is gone from the autumn wood,
So frail a thread as a sider’s spinning
Can carry a dream, or enchant a