| |
Autumn Dawdles
Mosaics of gold and crimson;
follow the last migrating duck.
And barren soil littered with death;
stripped of its grandeur, turns to muck.
Autumn dawdles well past its end;
no longer painting leaves with light.
And as scarlet inks the sunset;
twilight slowly morphs into night.
Murky cloud banks of charcoal-grey,
blotter icy blue skies away.
And like a curtain of black smoke;
shadows stealthily shadow day.
Bare branches rattle in the wind;
contemplating the coming snow.
And clinging to the horizon;
daylight's sticky fingers let go.
Copyright ©
Emile Pinet
|