First Lines Contest 2017: When Season's Change The Journey Begins

The August wind swooped down from the Cimmerian sky. With a dark autumn whisper; from the tops of trees, it surfed withered leaves across forgotten graves, around weather worn tombstones; and down the hill; through the open gates and across the street; where, underneath a waning gibbous moon; the last of summer grass lay dying. The Priest, the grave diggers—gone; a single mourner remains.