November

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

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

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