November

Eight years ago, during a spell of foggy grey weather with not a breath of wind, I wrote this little poem: NOVEMBER Strange times. November's complacent benediction in blackness before dawn, with just a hint of menace? Silence. Day after day A grey shroud over our heads draped from far horizons, flat, heavy, damp as a grimy sponge drawing colour from the land. A leaden sea. Even the stream is low, slow, murmuring. Night after night no stars, no wind, no moon, no rain. Unsettled, I listen. Silence. Then, in the far woods A tawny owl, right on the edge of hearing.