There are Wolves in Here

The (un) hallowed month of October, and the veils are thinning.
The nights seep back into the day, twilight comes where only two months ago there would have been bright sunshine. The skies seem unpredictable; blue skies and bright sun today, yesterday, rain and gloom.
October coming, and everything belongs to that season - October is a season of its own - mundane roads a little bit more lost in their own shadows, the sea both brighter and somehow more indistinct, the air tastes as if it has been spiked with frost - sometimes anyway, and there always seems to be an unseen distance crowding in.
Maybe.
October might be that feeling of someone following you a few streets away, or the song of the wind as it tears the leaves from roadside trees.
(and waking in the dark of the small hours once, listening to the wind in the chimney, all I could think was 'there are wolves in there' and I fell back to sleep again, and when I woke all I could remember of the dreams that followed were dark roads on the outskirts of unknown towns)
Bone-white and whistling with mysteries. Old lines written in notebooks. Down on Perranporth beach over the autumn of 1999, walking Bracken the Yorkshire Terrier. Up along the sand dunes looking down at the sea coming in. 10 '0' clock tides. And the wind through the grass, through the sand, through the day.
Apples lost beneath trees to darkly growing grass, and the last of the wasps hover round their golden, rotting repaste. Slice an apple in half the wrong way, and you'll see a pentagram. One of your magickal five-a-day. No wonder Eve tempted Adam with one.
Ghost-stories and daydream. Early afternoon is a wild time if the wind blows and the sun is out. Up little used alleyways, along deserted streets. Watch the leaves scuttle from the parks and ther pavements, lost in roadside streams.
At night the leaves under the light of street lamps look like rats curled up in the neon.
I thought this once at Worcester. Autumn of 1998. Walking  to the petrol station where I worked and the breeze blowing through the rain. Dark light, and a temporary fireworks shop on London Road. 'Black Cat Fireworks' and the back-lit sign, a ghoulish brilliant yellow shining out like the small hours, a horror-comic shop.
I am in love with October.
Rest on hilltops and watch the town below, drift with ships on horizons, and there will be hours spent in ramshackle cafes on street corners. Drift away into the miasma of evening. Dusk-coffees, and the sound of ashtrays on wooden tables. No. No smoking now. These must be the ghosts of cigarettes. Look out of the window at the street, coats wrapped around passers by. Umbrellas useless in the wind and the rain and the day.
Days sinking down.
None of this has happened.
All of this has happened.
October is an engine at the heart of everything, the heart of a shadowy factory. The factory chimneys reach up for a fecund, pregnant moon in the sea-like skies of night.
Wild and blind as ghosts, and on this night before October - not even twilight yet though- I see her pale skin and distant eyes. Her footsteps in a hallway, and when I turn there is no-one there, just a few discarded leaves, disordered with fevers of red and orange and yellow, bright offerings to this most nocturnal and narcotic of months.