Peter Adamson

Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and P&LA ssignments

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November

 

The leaves of yet another year collect

among the chimney pots. An early mist,

and out beyond the town a smouldering

of fields, redwing and fieldfare flying in,

cold laughter from the skies, notes on a wire,

woodsmoke on the air, our summer’s pyre.

 

Not long before November’s darkness comes

to rub out day at half past four and bring

a dulling down of blood, a loss of glare,

a quiet motley to the air this day to end,

this quiet truth to tell, And a soft rain

to wish our sorrows well.

 


 

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