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.