November Day  
 

The sharp wind soughs round the house,
Ravishing the leaves from the
Frost-seared garden,
And flinging them upward
In wild, abandoned dance.
 
Flickering snowflakes float to hard earth
Leaving no impress,
But vestigial damp.
 
Winter comes -
And the death of the year.


Clare Stewart
06 November 1980

 

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