November gloaming
A muslin darkness cloaks everything
by dinnertime and the calligraphy
of hawthorn boughs pens warnings
in a pewter sky. As clocks fall back
rainstorms acknowledge the act
as a welcome sign and cocoon
the moon. The sky is speckled
with stars scattered in infinity.
Whipped by the wind leaves lie
in sodden heaps on deserted streets
where I appear, puffer wrapped
in rain gear, my summer clothes
forsaken at the back of my closet.
Mary Franklin’s poems have appeared in numerous print and online journals including Anthropocene, Hobo Camp Review, I am not a silent poet, Ink Sweat and Tears, Iota, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Three Drops from a Cauldron. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Lovely! So rich.
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