It’s that time of year for the start of my annual review, and to kick things off a poem from last November
It is a time for tears,
Of scudding clouds and fierce-blown frost
On a chill north wind.
When darkness lurks mere moments after dawn
And perpetual shade creeps like the Reaper in this winterland.
Death and snow are the bitter harvest
Of this barren season.
A time for tears; November,
Swansong of the year.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.