November Poem by Andrew James Murray
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
Friday, May 3, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: seasons,time
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4/28/2024 5:03:59 AM # 1.0.0.1119
