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The Last Leaf Of Autumn: Barefoot and falling, infinity is a number that has none to end

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Reena Doss

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“The Reaper's Harvest by Stewart Stafford Vast underworld gates open on Samhain night, The grail Sun winters there, in paling sight. Unquiet spirits swarm forth in feral misprision, Trick-or-treat landlords knock in spectral vision. Autumn, perennially-early to Death's season, Winter's welcome overstayed in icy reason. Spring's distant wave thrills in emerging seed, Summer's blush in full alignment decreed. Snowflake to blossom, and greenery to withering; As effigy reminders of cyclical dithering, Seasonal standing stones sink to shifting sands, Saplings of the forest’s new strength, in nature’s hands. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

SeasonsAfterlifeHalloweenSeasons Of LifeSamhainNature PoetryAll Hallows EveHalloween PoemHalloween PoemsOctober 31st
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“Power twitched at her fingertips. It was Samhain after all, and her power swelled within her, aching to be used. The magic that came with Samhain was different from the other dates like Ostara or Beltane. It was wilder, and it came with its own shadow. And with the old woods at her back, and the rolling fields before her, she was all but breathing the magic in. It seeped from the soil into her body and wound its way like deep green tendrils into her heart.”

SamhainPowerful Magic
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“It was the mist which made everything strange, spread across the land, a seven-foot-thick blanket, stretched almost uniformly over the flat bottom of the valley, and the gentle slopes leading down into it. As silent as the mist, Codrin’s army moved out of the forest. An observer high above the ground would see rows of floating heads, arranged in a matrix, the distance between them almost regular. Having helmets of many different colors, the heads offered a striking contrast to the white-gray monotony of the mist. An army of floating heads. Unaware of their weird appearance from above, the heads continued their journey down, toward Lenard’s army. To an observer on the ground, nothing could be seen until it was too late. Lenard’s sleeping soldiers woke up when the ground trembled to the rhythm of more than a thousand horses trampling everything in their way. They woke up, and they died. Some of them died while they slept. When the last cry died away, and the fog finally lifted, the surviving men surrendered. At the end of the clash, which became known as the Battle of the Mist, Codrin found that he had lost only fifteen men. Lenard had lost half of his army, his son and his life.”

WarDeathBattleStrategyCavalryCavalry Charge
Book:Respectant
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