THE LABYRINTH PUT TO BED

September, her ripe harvest beckons.

Generous grasses once green, kingly gold,

give in to pale, bow down, reduce

wrapping walls to half their former height.

Bristly ox tongue, strong, branched and scratchy

dominates with white seedhead fluff while

yellow flowers push upward, final

survivor in the lost hedge structure.

Self-heal boasts purple, brightly erect,

room to show off its culmination.

The yellow of common fleabane shares

space with sister sprays, brown, retreating.

Two acorns continue lives as oaks,

darkened leaves compact, still holding fast,

not yet brought to naught by voracious

rabbit chomping and pigeon plucking.

Rabbits, the labyrinth's night visitors,

create earth-line paths, a variance

with the circular man-made pattern,

further fragmenting perishing walls.

It is Autumn. Yet the path remains.

Ingress created daily: feet tread

gently the earth, eyes view ahead, behind,

mind becomes one. Enter the centre.

Kaaren Whitney

Autumn Equinox 2004

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