Just as Spring starts to show itself, a wee poem about Autumn. Ah well…

 October taps
 on my bedroom window.
 A cold sound,
 Out there,
 Autumn slowly kills,
 in its usual,                                                                                                                                                                  beautiful way.
 First light
 reveals a golden irony.
 Leaves wave
 from cold branches.
 They beckon me
 to bear witness
 to the richness
 of their going.
 But gold,
 is not the colour of death,
 and life
 continues at the bud.
 Isn’t this
 what we all hope for?
 A last flush of beauty,
 a promise of rebirth.



 Derek Ross. 

10 thoughts on “October

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