During Summer you forget it,
The sharp cold freshness of an early autumn morning,
The snap in the air stinging your cheeks.
You forget the red of hawthorn and rowan berries,
The silver dewdrops on a spiderís web,
The yellow of the turning trees.
You forget the mould-smell of fallen leaves,
The earth-smell of newly ploughed fields shorn of their golden coat,
The smoke-smell of bonfires.
You forget how early the dusk closes in,
Sending you home again to the hoot of hunting owls,
Eager to cosy up in front of the hearth.
You forget how, each Mabon,
You remember Autumn is best.