Gone the fires of autumn's glory, lost to the legions of cloud-swept days and chilling rains. Gone to wild geese flying southward, gone the last of summer's bounty. Mornings rimed with silver frost, evenings gathering gloom for sitting round the hearthfires glow. In the vale under the moor, the village speeds it's frantic pace. Thatcher's finish repairs on thick round roofs to hold out the nows of winter.
Children bring in the last of the nuts and withered fruits from the woods.
The wheat is threshed and winnowed on the chilly breeze. Woodsmoke rises from the hearthfires and axes ring in the clear air. Down from the moors come the cattle and sheep to the winter fields, come too the pigs from the forest glades. The smell of blood is thick in upon the air as those animals chosen for the slaughter are slain and cured against the winter's needs. The planting begun at Beltane is now the harvest.