An autumn sun for an autumn saint
sits low and pale behind the mists of
the morning as a million lost causes
hang on to tree branches in a final
colourful prayer of disobedience.
A stray breeze releases them to the ground.
Is that a prayer I choose this day?
To be released. Or is it to stay for one
final warming of the sun before the
slow drift to rest?
Across the bridge to the north the last
of the mist shuffles away between trees
and rocks another offering off toward
the skies as our morning prayers take
flight. As we leave, the day began, the
mists have gone. Our cause as lost as
dear St. Jude. The last chance offering
of empty ‘just-in-cases’ to carry us on
to the whatever of tomorrow.