I love poetry and sometimes I dabble with thoughts, this one began to form on my friday drive into work:
Cool November, with it’s skies Slate grey, hanging heavy o’er the day,
Trees seem somber, mourn the loss of leaves of green that once shone gloss.
Birdsong silent, dawn chorus sleeping, squirrels searching for treats in keeping.
Fells that hosted family fun now shadowed in mist where Herdwicks run.
Hedgerows sparse where berries grew now thorny bowers wear a diamond dew.
Spiders lay there silken lines, a sticky larder for leaner times,
Fleecy flocks of sheep lay grazing, Bonfire night no longer blazing, await a blanket of pure white snow
under which the moss and snowdrops grow, awaiting Spring and a brand new beginning, but first
Christmas is coming and the bells will be ringing.
November, the wonderful prelude to Spring, grey, cold and misty but it’s glories I’ll sing!
By Lucy Gutteridge