Transformed

I woke and day had drifted into morning,

the fog in shy, slow roll across the hills,

as clouds in banked emotion rode blue sky,

and shredded, shrivelled leaves did fall.

 

As Autumn called the name of season’s end,

and frost threw glittered life to cobwebs,

strewn on grass and fence and tree,

so did the brightness banish hollow darkness.

 

The light has come again to nettled night,

as if to say that cycles would prevail,

and that which died would be transformed;

whether day, or leaf, or life, or me.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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