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