8 November 2012
I open up the cobwebbed door, As a hurl of cold wind attacks my face, I step outside onto the squelching doormat, And set my eyes upon this 'November place'.
The ground is dusted with a thin sprinkle of sugar, Embedded with sparkling, heavy footprints, Pixels of white, glowing sunlight dance, Causing the glimmering path to glint.
Bare-branched trees nudge the clouds in the sky, Sitting in a puddle of bright amber leaves, The air is tinged with a bitter, icy chill, Through the trees, a wisp of wind weaves.
A flock of birds soar back to their home, Frightened by the echo of tolling church bells, The early dark night washes out the day, In this wonder of a place, where November dwells.
November • Opuss № I