November

Slowly, slowly, the daylight grows and lays its dove grey feathers of light across the room.

The window becomes a frame for the world outside.

And within, the house starts to move, to come to life, as lights go on and doors open and close,

And within my heart the sadness, long born, turns over to face a new day.

The November sky is grey with rain, and the sun is hidden behind the space vacated by the moon.

The last remaining leaves that cling to twigs are shaken free, and glide,

Back and forwards, to settle on the sodden ground below.

And still within me sits the grief that will not go away.

The wind is growling, howling through the trees, and round my roof.

It carries raindrops, icy, cold and cruel.

The promise of a winter storm is looming, its omen sobs a warning on the wind,

And still within my soul the damning cries of hell are screaming.

The day grows older, darker, shorter, colder, the tears of rain are proof

That nothing of the warmth of summer can endure.

A longing for the fire, for candles, light to warm the hands and mind,

Grows bright, and then fades dull again, just dreaming.

(c) 2ndwitch 02/11/10