November

Low sun
pale blue sky
bare branches
a cold wind

Dark green losing
colour to palest hue
Leaves gently
drift down

Demure yellow
before falling
Standing out
in final glory

Riches in berries
seeds being scattered
in the blanket of leaves
new life in waiting

Dark clouds speed in
the wind lifts its voice
the command is heeded
Leaves scatter

Distant hills don
their white caps
the sun now sets early
ice glazes what rain has wetted

The signal is raised
The window is open
For the voice of the North
To sing the final of the year