Threshold

Pewter and ivory satin the sky,

beaten copper and bronze the leaves,

bare-shouldered, the island landscape

crosses the threshold to another November.

The wind rises to meet her - a cold shawl

trailing dry fringe through the trees.

Listen, listen to November's wind,

again that lonely and translucent singing.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

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