Now these clouds, the cold mean greys
sideways rain, the north lands I remember.
The drowning choke of smoke and fire,
traveling the dark road to your home.
The black and spark of stars we watched
through the night before that killing dawn
before the fog, the cold that held us down.
The clinch and grasp, a slow stinging wasp.
Gone the fragrant allure and hum of bees
the honey meadow of petals,
only a fleeting summer - we gathered
now swallowed in the autumn thunder,
the bruising cold of November.