have an anorexic look;
there is
not much in the autumn
wood
to make you smile but it is not yet,
not quite yet, the saddest time of the year.
Only, there is a haunting sense
of the imminent cessation of being;
the year, in turning, turns in on itself.
Introspective weather, a sickroom hush.
Angela Carter,
from “The Erl-King”, The Bloody Chamber
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