Seren J.H. Wolfe

hear of the Autumn King, with the Fae’s history a twinkle in their eyes --
binding mine spirit within their realm of crimson leaves, and singing honey-drunk words
that quicken the blood in mine ears;
the roll of their fingers over my cheeks leaves a trail of rejuvenation like spring,
playing a tune that I follow down rivers of red where warm waters break on icy shores.

the worship and hymns doused upon their pyres
send tendrils of celebration over their mountains as we speak
of the practised hand of Autumn. of the soft approach and lingering embrace.
at their right hand we bend knee, for in their glory, we may taste all that is around us:
the fragrance of both decay and renewal - keen notes among the rain, 
with the new endeavours their renewed kingdom brings with it.