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First of November

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.

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Jan Allison

Date: 7/27/2018 4:48:00 PM

An absolute joy to read Peter I loved your vivid descriptive autumnal write, I love the time of year and the glorious colours of the foliage:-) hugs Jan xx

Patricia Cresswell

Date: 9/29/2017 11:26:00 AM

I come once again on a day here just as you described your day. It is funny (strange) how we humans seem to have retained ancient ways of sensing things in our immediate world. I suppose it is the remains of a survival mechanism. Yet to have retained even this vestige means to me that at one time we were much closer to nature and a part of us does not want to give it up. Am I wandering maybe oh well.

Patricia Cresswell
Date: 9/29/2017 11:33:00 AM

My point being somewhere inside that connection tells us the intent of the behaviour. Today the intent is to begin clearing the leaves from the trees. Promised I am done now.

Patricia Cresswell
Date: 9/29/2017 11:27:00 AM

I love those moments. It is like channeling some ancient poet.

Patricia Cresswell

Date: 8/21/2017 2:42:00 PM

Yes trees are very kind to us. Bringing a last rush of grandeur before the stark beauty of winter. Thank you for reminding me that all is never lost just misplaced for a time.

Peter Rees
Date: 8/21/2017 3:28:00 PM

It was one of those moments, sitting quietly looking out at the garden, when words came to me. I love your interpretation - all is never lost, just misplaced for a time. Thank you.