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.