Wednesday, 9 November 2011


Tousle-haired harbinger
Teasing the last remnants
From an Indian Summer.
Next years buds
Vestiges of growth
Belie the destitution
That November will bring.
Beyond, under frigid skies,
The wrecking months.
Skirling winds
Bitter, twisted tendrils
Seep through gaps
Chilling bones, until,
Desolate and alone,
They whither and snap
Like dry grass
Blast-stripped, brown
With cold and decay.

Amidst the carnage,
She walks.