The rains come down; the chalk grey mud of Gaul
Is foamed beneath the clash of treading tanks
And soldiers curse.
I used to like the Fall
And will again, I hope, stand on the banks
Of flooded streams made rich with Autumn rain,
A seasoned briar clenched between my teeth,
And breathe the stinging frost wind.
Stride down the tree lined byways where the heath
Has mingled scent of sage with fern and pine
To savor there the breath of growing things
Distilled in ice-chill silence.
This is mine!
This time of year when airborne ice makes wings
Around the bacchic moon, when sun and tree
Thrall the wooded land with Summer’s ember.
When these campaigns are but a memory
And I am home again. In September.
— Grady L. McMurtry
Note: Originally published in Thelema Lodge Calendar, September 1992.