Turning

Painting by Осень

You feel it in your bones,
The turning of the year,
In the cool touch of the sun as it turns its face away.
You feel it in the air that shivers,
Skimming the ripples of the river,
Bringing a taste of ice and sadness.
You hear it in the wistful song of finches,
Waiting for the winter and the huddled chill of falling leaves,
In the dry rustle, dead branch rattle of the wind
That murmurs through bent reeds,
Singing a dark song the ear shuns.
You see it in the turning of the colours,
The golden butter light that slides cool against the skin,
Yellow streaks running through the green,
A dead fire, dry as dust,
Scudding clouds that flit across the sun,
Casting cold shadows to quench the fragile warmth.
You feel the turning of the year with every jangling nerve,
The bones creak and crack, piping finches of protest,
But the earth shifts and rolls regardless,
Through the empty echoing halls of wintry space,
As finch feathers ruffle, shuffle closer their bird bodies,
And the north creeps on its frozen belly,
Among the fallen petals of the summer south.