There was an edge

There was an edge

In the aftermath

Of reaping

The crop of ripened ears

Leaving a sharp stubble

That would scratch soft skin

Skewer a reckless soul

Damage the hem of a Sunday skirt

As young tyros cavorted

Through fresh-cut fields

On those still summer-warm days

Preceding the onset of winter,

The short, dark days

The long wait for the sun

That began, even as it faded

Wild is the wind

Of October

Old Beech trees

Will fall along the dale

Where the old Norman church lies hidden

Even from Cromwell’s men

Popish idolatry

Stained glass windows

As frowned upon

As heathen celebration

Cleverly transformed into

Childish pastime

Goulish festivities

Rendered harmless

And meaningless

A masquerade

To brighten cold nights

A Candlemas

To lighten the way

For the birth of spring

When the dance of the Mayfly

Marked the joyful return

Of golden corn

And summertime.