Before the birth of summer’s death there flows
a northern hint of autumn’s doleful hymn
upon the dancing streams of playful airs
that whisper lullabies to root and grain,
as verdant wine is sapped, a river blown
into the season’s turning.  Mourning swims
in swollen ranks as harvest’s bounty, fair
fruition of the mother’s birthing pains,
is culled and gathered; life from death, a rose
enacted (elegy for time), a grim
reminder of the beauty found where e’er
the holy lembas bread is broke in twain –
the sun intoning light in alban sound,
a paean to the blood of Heaven’s Hound

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