Melancholy & Missing Lighters

(Source) The birds are gone to bed the cows are still  And sheep lie panting on each old molehill  And underneath the willow's grey-green bough  Like toil a-resting lies the fallow plough  The timid hares throw daylights fears away  On the lane road to dust and dance and play  Then dabble in grain by nought deterred To lick the dew-fall from the barley's beard  Then out they start again and round the hill  Like happy thoughts--dance--squat--and loiter still  Till milking maidens in the early morn  Jingle their yokes and start them in the corn  Through well-known beaten paths each nimbling hare  Starts quick as fear--and seeks its hidden lair Poem taken from: John Clare , English Poet, 1793 - 1864 Cousineau, Phil (editor).  Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day.  Viva Editions, 2013.

 A week of hitching, Left us worn and bitching, Til one last ride brought Us finally home -- To tracks and freight trains, Bridge full of rider tags, Shelter from the rains To come in this town Tucked in the mountains,  Of those mountains' streams, A river does run 'neath The bridge'o hobo dreams, Where we cook and sleep Til our ride does come.

(Source) Happy first day of autumn! 🍁🍂🍃 (A splendid spring to my southern hemisphere peoples~🌸) I'm certainly eager for the cooler days, spurring me on my journey back down south. Hiking and waiting on trains will be the slightest bit more comfortable. Let's forget the aesthetics of browning crop fields and mountains painted reds, oranges and yellows. To celebrate, I'll be sharing an excerpt from Washington Irving's most well-known story, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow". This excerpt is probably my favourite part because of how Irving gushes over autumn's harvest in such rich detail. Irving seems to have had a tendency to be a bit too heavy with prose (he even pokes fun at this in his story "The Mutability of Literature"). But we can absolutely appreciate a drama king with flair xP I hope this gives you gooseflesh like it did when I first read it. Please enjoy~ ... It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and ...

I wake to the sound of trickling water and pines whispering in the wind.  My body is sore as I uncurl myself from the fetal position I had slept in. My limbs groan as I drag myself out of the small section sandwiched between the steel wall and the steel mechanical arm that shifts whenever the train turns. For now, the train is still and silent.  We're sided out on a single track flanked by a ledge that tumbles down into a river that's mostly obscured from my view by pine trees. With a sudden creak and groan of its own, the train inches forward.  It pulls onto a bridge, where we creep over a wide, rich emerald green river dotted with sandbars. Once we're on the other side of the bridge, the train stops again. The sky is a powdery blue; the sun's beginning to light up the world. This general manifest train, made up of mostly closed boxcars, along with a sparse number of hopper cars and hazmat tankers strung together, had departed north just after dark.  Upon checking m...

I wake to the sun that's smothered by a sheet Of clouds that linger grey with the threat of rain. The air is cooler, less oppressive than The hot and muggy night I seldom slept. I hope this wave of heat be ending soon; As far up north I'm 'legally' allowed To roam, and Maine's not spared this brutal burn; So wicked a summer, many more to come. Extend and curl my toes and fingers, stretch My body far as possibly I can, Then, sink myself upon my sleeping bag Beneath that keeps my form afloat and safe. Above, a tarp just purchase, bristling pines,  And dreary sky; I dread the days to come, But now, in this untethered moment, time That's fading quick, existence feels alright.

Are you feeling fine? Are you in your head? If you're out of time, You could end up dead. Now I can barely breathe, And I can't wait to leave, And I can feel the world passing through my hands, And I can see the light falling through the sands, And I am drowning in this reality,  Can someone help me remember what's unseen? But I don't want to know,  What happens in the end. Are you feeling fine? Are you in your head? If you're out of time, You could end up dead.

 A cup of wine under the flowering trees; I drink alone, for no friend is near. Raising my cup, I beckon the bright moon, For he, with my shadow, will make three men. The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine; Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side. Yet with the moon as my friend and the shadow as slave, I must make merry before the Spring is spent. To the songs I sing, the moon flickers her beams, In the dance I weave, my shadow tangles and breaks. While we were sober, three shared the fun; Now we are drunk, each goes his way. May we long share our odd, inanimate feast, And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky. . . . Li Bai (Li Po, Li Pai) (701-762) Tang Dynasty Chinese Poet Poem taken from: Cousineau, Phil (editor). Burning the Midnight Oil: Illuminating Words for the Long Night's Journey into Day. Viva Editions, 2013.