Turning Cold

Turning Cold

The air feels thinner in the early light,

a quiet nip brushing along my hands,

I breathe out and watch the mist rise,

soft as the morning finding its shape.

Leaves move with a tired rustle now,

their colours fading to worn-out browns,

they fall without hurry to the ground,

lying still like they have nothing left to say.

The sky holds a pale and heavy look,

clouds hanging low as if half asleep,

the light slips away sooner each day,

fading before I am ready for the dark.

A cool sting settles on my cheeks,

the cold creeping in without warning,

I taste the damp in the air as I walk,

a reminder that winter is close.

Somewhere a door shuts with a dull echo,

sound carrying farther in the sharp air,

even the birds fly quieter across the field,

keeping their wings close to their bodies.

The wind moves through the trees slowly,

lifting loose twigs and brushing my coat,

it carries the smell of wet soil and smoke,

a mix that clings to the back of my throat.

I stand still and feel the world shift,

not rushing, only turning in its own time,

every sense noticing the change,

the small signs that autumn is letting go.