A recent walk in the nearby quarry with my dog reminded me of this poem I wrote last November, on a wetter, windier day.
Fall Descending
Young silver birch; leaves
Small copper butterflies pinned
Onto its branches.
Behind, the quarry cliff drips,
Dripping liquid-black.
Freezing rain and persistent,
Probing roots prise rock
With superhuman fingers.
Dark creeps out, not light
Filtering through cracks like Hope.
Winter is coming.
Copyright@PamelaTurton
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