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November, as the poets say -
autumn's demise, winter's gateway.
Its shortened days and longer nights
descending, death is in her sights:
leaves fall, as is their yearly fate,
and beasts prepare to hibernate.
November, as my lady lies
so silent, moving not her eyes -
with ashen skin, lips cold as death,
I wait in vain to feel her breath.
Her soul immortal, this I know,
yet in this life I'll grieve her so.
Written 26 November 2020
Copyright © John Watt | Year Posted 2020
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