The days are becoming tired…

languor accompanying the dawn…

colour weeping from the light…

the skies paler…

greyer…

darker…

the sun shrinks and gives up earlier each day

as if recoiling from a heavy-hearted hope…

 

and my soul cries, O God,

"Comfort, O comfort me.

grant peace through this autumn

when decay comes unbidden once more.”

 

And In such a season,

restless with this turning against the light,

may I bury my words of praise

under the frosted and crusted soil,

and in the long-promise that is faith,

as all else falters and fades,

may I trust 

long,

expect,

their prodigal

and generous

return.