Ocober Poem

October by Hilaire Belloc

Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold,
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.

Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether;
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free,
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together.

 

What a beautiful Poem. October is almost over, where has it gone? My garden is dismantled, irrigation water shut off until Spring. I picked the remainder of the tomato's this past weekend, and canned six pints of salsa. I thanked the garden as I pulled the tomato plants from the earth. Thanked it for providing my family wonderful, fresh vegetables.

Are you going trick or treating tomorrow eve? Are you aware the idea of "Trick or Treat" stems from the old custom of poor persons going to rich neighbors' homes and begging for a "soul cake" on All Souls Eve?

"October, winsome girl, you toss your shining head, And show the world your brilliant frocks of russet, gold, and red...."

Where ever this day leads you, enjoy the ride!