November 28

Skidded the rook into the wintry sky

And called but once, and left the day forlorn

And then, as though that cry the clouds had torn,

The first few snowflakes fell before my eyes.

The dead leaves scuffed beneath my wandering feet,

A chill wind stirred my hair and rattled twigs

That stretched, despairing, like the bones of wings,

Their feathers fallen, limbs devoid of heat.

And as I walked the day drew on towards night

The dusk closed in before me like a shroud

And still the snow fell gently all around

And softly, softly hid the trees from sight.