Shrugging dusk, grappling with the heavy coat of night,
falling into darkness with a suddenness which makes
summer laugh and spring smile and autumn remember,
as day trims the cloth of light accordingly and surrenders
to the force which dictates when it will be born and when
it will die, or at least, sleep, in those lost, chilled moments
wrapped in the shawl of blackness which is now, once
more, being drawn slowly from the closet of time and
purpose, shaken out with the last drift of sunshine and
warmth, ruffled through slow mornings and snapping
evening, tousled by the cold, frosted hair of the season:
so does winter come again with icy, quiet words.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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