The mellow month, when each thing acquiesces and concedes,
And ripens to a sweetness that fulfils our deepest needs.
The nights begin to chill and, in our homes, the fires are lit.
And thoughts are turned to Christmas, and we thrill a little bit.
Outside, the stalks are blackening, and flower petals fall.
And yet there is a rightness of progression to it all.
And when the month comes to a close, the pumpkin lights the night
And children shriek with laughter as they give the neighbours fright.
The mellowness is vanishing. The winter marches in,
And now it is the time for reminiscence to begin.
Ten months have flown so swiftly. Looking back, where did it go?
And I am one year older. But I do not feel it so.
©Ruth Twyman Lockyer October 2013