The people stood and watched the tramontana take the world past them, clouds, palm leaves, things from gardens that would not be missed and those that most definitely would.

It was so strong it tore a small girl’s midday shadow clean away from her feet. Black against the whiteness, it went tumbling and turning down the dusty lane until it was lost in the shade of the oak trees. The girl stared wide-eyed at where her shadow had been and turned her face up towards her mother, who patted her head and ruffled her hair and hid her own tears.

“A day it’s born, a day it lives, a day it dies,” someone muttered, “but this is its fourth day and now it’s taking shadows.” There was silence except for the sound of the wind.

October strides in

October strides in,
her fisted gloves of red gold leaves
holding the foreboding frozen heart of winter.
She kicks the trees with wild swings;
Their branches sway and leaves blow in her face like tears.
She strides on and, in the distance behind her,
The echoed howls of winter wolves grow louder.