November

I walk in the last mournful rays
of November sunlight
their pale light
failing, so it seems
like a melancholy dream
I feel the cold chill
of air preparing for the snows to come;
my heart despairs of finding warmth, hope, comfort.
I have walked a hundred roads,
thought a hundred thoughts
and still it comes to this
fading November twilight,
of time gone, going
of winter's coming,
the cold blank whiteness
that swallows the world.

Perran Nov 19/94

© 1994 Daniel F. Dickinson released under Creative Commons Share Alike 4.0 License

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