Day Twenty Eight: Untitled by Graham Sherwood

Summer’s vivid apple green silks and limes

have faded blandly to a memory,

and the bottled sages of autumn,

now prone underfoot, no longer crackle,

or laugh beneath our heavy boots.

In sodden maroons squirrels seek to rummage,

shunning the magpies chattered mockery,

shrill portents hiss bitter from the north,

tuned by the fingers of a stripped oak flute.

Only pearls of mistletoe await their hour,

to glisten moist above the Yule log’s flame.

Once warmed, dark corners peer

with heavy dormant eyes,

to bid the failing year farewell.

Graham Sherwood