The season stalks with creeping feet.
It is not yet upon us as we draw our coats closer,
And prepare our hands, our lips for whipping winds.
It is not yet at our door but I sense its ominous approach.
The Fear is rising.
The endless darkness,
The reducing of our bit of world,
The buttoning in of skin
The waiting for a Snowdrop's hopeful tremble.
No, the season is not yet on us,
Until then, I'll savour the leaves and the blustering wind
I'll lament the starling's murmuration
And hold on tight to the playfulness of Summer.

Poetry by 1LFD
Read 54 times
Written on 2021-10-31 at 23:16

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