on this autumnal day
balding trees echo with
the memory of recent rain,
their quiet voice mourns their loss
with twisted black hands
dormant grass, covered
in blanket, spun
from golden tears,
of warm summer breeze.
grey sky mirrors the hue
of infected urban sprawl,
masking its sharp ugliness
from the pure blue of sky.
a million voices wither and die,
dreams fade to darkness,
cold autumn day.
Christopher Withers's Other Poems
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