November

Walking on a cold November morning the woods are bare the old leaves going or gone, Mist covers the land and clings onto wet spiders webs that hang from the stark trees, Who could enjoy this time of year when there is nothing but clouds, fogs and frosts, Fogs that are damp and hang over watery places like rivers, streams and water mead's, The summer flowers are gone and the long grass stands high amongst wooded thickets, Thickets of sticks standing alone in an old unused field or an old desolate garden, These thickets withered bleached and sere a sad sight a lost legacy now all shriveled, Green gorse and broom waved white in the summer breezes have now waved a last goodby They are like skeleton trophies of a death rattle with dry with brittle hollow stalks, The brooks are filled and the rivers are turbid covered in a brown dirty thick foam, Rivers hurrying along with angry strength and the waters soak the fields and glades, Leaving our gardens damp and desolate their flowers just naked stems and dying leaves.