Geese
A button
of silver
high above
the dawn,
a full moon
mirrors the call
of November,
the last leaves
of the season,
whispering farewell
to the empty
of trees
and softly,
slowly,
in silence
fall.
And as dawn
clears
the stars
from the rising
morning skies
they fade
in blues
and greys
in dreaming
of summer’s eyes
there is a glimpse,
a glance
of light,
as shadows flutter
in myriads
upon the garden
across the crumbling
broken wall,
for above
a flock of geese
tremble and pull
the day,
out, from under
the night,
with rising wings,
of skies
and calls.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
