Quiet
Quiet is
the morning,
the hush
of the fall,
the last
of leaves,
the memories
of October
dry and broken
roll with the wind
whispering
lost
and abandoned
against the
garden wall
for above
the skies
lie hidden
in blankets,
the fog
of November
hanging
upon the
plough
of fields,
the call
of a single blackbird,
across
the emptiness
of days,
as above
the sun
in a blush
of crimson red
rises
reluctant
at first
and lifts
and carries
the dawn
who slowly
carefully,
yields.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
