From my poetry blog.
November The wind in hollows unfrequented, gathering the detritus among bare-branched forms. A copse; a corpse, the land lies dead, the grass sullen and yellow; the day stunted and short. We peel back the veneer of discarded hours, the gusts in our hair and sombre halls, confessing ageing sins in rescinding echoes, the shadows lengthen; the evening falls ©AndrewJamesMurray
Love this!
The trees are winter spindly now. The leaves carpet the grass.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very poetic if you don’t mind me saying 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ha ha! I leave poetry writing to the experts. 😀 Life is better that way.
LikeLiked by 1 person
🙂
LikeLike