Almost November

The perfumed haunts of late July
Lay cold and barren ‘neath the sky
A sky of moody blue and gray
Where low cloud drives the sun away
The sun which seems a little pale
It’s valiant beam a little frail


The purple pansy bows her head
Nestled in a leafy bed
She listens to the lonesome tune
Of winds that used to laugh in June
But now they sweep across the earth
Weeping with a chilling mirth

In the frigid morning hush
The paint upon the artist’s brush
Has turned from gold, scarlet and bronze
To cold and muted under-tones
Almost November……is what it would say
If the sky were turned into a painting today…………..

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin