Old man's beard
is it just my age?
increasingly I value
winter’s soft decay
those last few leaves
revealing tree branches
decorated with lichen
rays of the low sun
penetrating morning mist
shining in hoar frost
in the hedgerows
remnants of summer’s blooms
ragged robin and old man’s beard
gulls and crows picking
at the dead fields, harbingers
of a time of lack
oak leaves are the last
to fall, pallid brown, clinging
to summer’s false hopes
even at midday
mist persists, permeating
tired fields, sad bare woods
a time of quiet
decay and rebirth: I watch
disconsolately
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