Strained across November’s sky,
unbroken lines that haunt the sigh
of coursers’ wings in gentle hush
that to this barren day give rush
of blood to see them there.
Silver hints amongst the trees
where forest kneels to open lea
to hear the prattling golden grass,
hear each whispered breath sneak past
defined in winter’s care.
Tho’ burgeoning from November’s mood,
the cold and hollow bend the wood,
hold the stoic silence keen
where few a passerby are seen
and fewer yet remain.
That tho’ denied, the autumn’s musk
enchants the air from twig to husk,
mends the turn in hope decayed,
holds to season’s last breath played,
that by the winter gain
a promise for sweet spring’s reprise,
by still endurance and patient eye
may push a sprig through warmer duff,
mix the autumn’s scent with stuff
to bless life’s cycle spent…
fragrant blossom, fragrant scent…
Yet here today hold fast in hope
amidst this season’s depth, must cope
and through this pause remain.