The wind sweeps in on cloven hooves from the west, capering and snapping at slow-moving ponderous humidity which bellows and shifts its heavy, clinging bulk with cumbersome grace away from the relentless approach of Fall, pulling with it heat and the curtain of soft rain, whose rhythmic pattering lulled me into a restless sleep. I smell it as I stand on my porch, a capricious wind pulling strands of curling hair from my neck, licking a promise into the bloom of pink on pale cheek.
Droplets of moisture gleam in the refracted light of the glowing moon which flickers and palely loiters behind the grumbling roiling clouds that cavort and roll in abandon in a wine-dark sky and seek to drown the silver need which spills from its brooding face.
Rustling and mumbling in urgent, dry papery whispers, the leaves on the trees warn of the coming of winter, their rich verdant pulchritude a façade of broken promise for when I close my eyes and listen, I can hear the constriction of narrowing veins as the sap shrinks away and slinks into hiding deep inside trunks still wearing their summer finery.
I open to the night and try to pull its promise into a heart, which like the leaves, has grown dry and desiccated and feel a terrible yearning regret seep from the very pores of my skin. I throw out thought and hope and hear the echo in the quivering dark air of ravens as they sweep and capture on the wind of swift wings the remnants of want and a desire that used to define in part the essence of self.
Most of us shuffle alone in ruts of our own making, if not content, resigned to the bland realities of days that bleed one into the other. I find in myself a terrible envy for those few souls I see with the ability and the will to find in moments, even seconds, small frissons of real living, of experiencing, internalizing the moment. Most of the time it is as if the majority of us are wrapped round with cotton and duct tape, itchy and confining, muffling and distorting the solid, real experience of living, protecting us to some extent but at the terrible cost of losing the ability to encounter the world in vibrant colour and texture.
I think often of just …quiet. No more caring or wondering or fretting or heartache. Just .. nothing. Like a siren call, over the rhythmic sound of the waves I hear them call me home.
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci, John Keats (1884)