My Book of Days tells me that November is “Tachwedd” in Welsh, which translates as slaughter. “Similarly, the Dutch used to call this month slachtmaand, since beasts were slaughtered in it.” Old English similar, though I despair of reproducing it here.
These early November hours
That crimson the creeper’s leaf across
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,
O’er a shield: else gold from rim to boss
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped
Elf-needled mat of moss.