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.