Mid-October, Cornwall

The hedgerows are thinning now,

blackberries gone soft,

and the lanes smell faintly of rain

and salt.

The sea keeps its own counsel,

grey, immense,

folding itself again and again

against the cliffs.

In the fields, the last daisies

bow their small heads.

Even the sheep seem subdued,

their white coats dull with weather.

I walk the coastal path

and think of how everything here

leans toward surrender,

the light lowering,

the tide pulling the edges

of the world inward.

And yet,

there is such beauty in the dimming,

the sun, before it disappears,

throws its last handful of gold

across the wet stones,

and for a moment

the whole bay burns.

I stand still

and let it pass through me,

this quiet glory,

this brief, bright ache

of being alive

in the middle of October

in Cornwall.