The Last Thing of October

Then October slips away,

Bye.

And then on towards Winter,

The howl of wind,

And the woody whistler.

This gateway opens cold

To the draft of the North.

And being so ushered

November enters.

This brings with it fast approaching stiffness

With all its damp damming drizzle days.

The Autumn catches hold

Of the aches of age.

And the year moves slowly on.

Less swiftly than in Spring,

But still purposefully and perilously onward to frost.

Winter and its broom

Sweeping away Summer putting it to compost.

©2018 Christopher Thompson

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