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I stand at the crossroads, waiting for a sign that will never come. I wear my brother’s sweatshirt, bracing for the inevitable chills that will soon run down my spine. Birds flock away in the distance, through brooding skies and heavy-hearted clouds. The bell tolls this year’s dusk.

Embers already crackle at the back of my mind. Warmth dissolves from a vast plain ridden with wintery gusts. Leaves burn in dying trees, forgetting the youth they used to bear.

Figs and grapes populate banquet tables ripe with harvest festivals, gourds and secret rituals. Wood chars in roaring hearths. Brown, red and orange overwhelm the landscape, drizzled with flashes of golden yellow. I miss the green.

I sit at the crossroads, cracking leaves and twigs under my boots. Summer weans into Autumn, falling onto my knees. Conkers break into my palms, beaten by more solid stakes than theirs; I collect the pitiful shards imbedded in my skin, blood prickling at my wrists.

Fog lifts everything but spirits, haunting cemeteries and motorways alike. I wander in places I thought I knew like the back of my hand, dreaming of piping hot tea, pumpkins and tongue-numbing spice.

Burgundy tints mesh with the golden details of priesthood, reflecting in calm pools of holy water. I flee churches and their pointed spires cutting through dishevelling winds. Sacred incense mists up and dulls the senses, one letter away from being terrified. Severe, guilty profiles and glances full of blame target my neck; the blessed are more chilling than the wicked.

The crossroads thickens, plotting and murmuring with ancient witches’ curses and children’s costumes. I stand as an unwilling witness between two worlds. One crashes around in incandescent light, the other drowns in torrents of biblical nature.

Forests grow thin, mountains go bald. Animals disappear, hoarding food for the coming months, dread staring at them right in the eye.

Silence permeates the horizon. I wear my umbrella on my sleeve, ears twitching at the first patter of raindrops on the pavement. My coat has gotten thicker, overlapping flannel and wool. Colours dim, covered in greyish moss and lichen, losing all sense of self.

A timid sun splashes over the silver sky. At night, it twinkles with the gaze of a thousand stars, cheeky observers of my fleeting existence. It bursts through the twilight ether, sharp blades of fuchsia ripping through indigo waves of clouds.

I fall at the crossroads. Crows cackle in front of somber skies, black feathers strewn before my sleepless eyes. Ravens stare at the bleak landscape, mystical guardians gazing at an impending doom I couldn’t possibly see. Their laughs echo around my skull, bouncing from one thought to the other, scattering mockery and melancholy in their wake. I sigh.

My hair is a mess.

My nose gushes with water.

My lungs fill with leaves.

The crossroads fades. Autumn catches fire.