Migration.

Migration.

Autumn is a whisper

And tickles disbelieving leaves

With a gentle hello,

Barely troubling proud trees

Still hung with summer green,

Fat and lush from too much rain.

Standing proud and sturdy,

They gird themselves

With reluctant hesitation,

Unwilling to accept

A change in fortune

That will be keenly felt,

But not today.

It remains dull and damp,

A time of in betweens,

When flight and migration

Is a matter of preparedness.

A restless wait for the

Teasing winds of change,

The prevailing currents

To turn in favour of the

Coming season’s fugitive,

Gathering strength

And stealing courage

For the journey.

It is undeniable

To all who fly

That once

Migrating birds have flown

There will be no turning back.

Not until the unforgiving

Ice cold winds

Have been and gone,

And a bright spring sun

Reclaims ascendancy

Over the bitter chill

Of winter,

Will they return.