Grey skies hang lifeless
like static paint on tired canvas.
Distant beech glow golden
yet nearer, Mirabelle waft around
in fresh winds of early November…
…. and what of me?
I sit in bed fooling myself about resting
when in fact, I need wind’s arms to
take and spin me on and forward
in this curious Dance of Life ….
Time to move with nature and breathe.