First of November
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first posted 2017, re-posted Feb.2023
The clocks have gone back
and all is still. The trees are molten gold.
The garden’s dieback mode infectious,
the air is damp and cold.
No texture to the sky,
its sullen grey devoid of shapes
of clouds, and no birds fly.
A melancholic mist shroud drapes
the resolutely silent land,
waiting, knowing change accepting
yet again. A blanket soft unfurled by hand
unseen, the autumn stage directing.
The players now must reconcile
as winter signs unfold
and glad we are that for a while
the trees are molten gold.
Copyright © Peter Rees | Year Posted 2023
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