Brusque November Dusk (a twist to the previous poem:)

 It is dark, rainy, cold. The perfect night for a bit of word-play:)

 This is the previous poem with a mood-swing...

Plowed fields like still-life oceans lie

Beneath blue bluffs of frozen sky

Transfixed, the ridge, with rigid trees

Shoulders the ranks of centuries

Their forms sketched, shamelessly and stark

Against the brush of early dark

The wind wanders; wonders alone

Where have the minstrels of dusk gone?

No lilt of leaf to tease the air

And please the straggler pausing where

The song of billabong and seas

Would softly sweep through sleepy trees

November’s brogue is roguish, bold

It moans at doors closed to the cold

West’s embers cannot keep their spark

Day disappears into the dark

Save for gold rectangular shapes

Dotting black worlds with window-scapes

Somewhere the laughter of a child

Is summer kissed and morning wild

But here day’s end folds like a fist

Into November’s morgue of mist

Twilight, a lonesome land bereft

Like a ghost-town with no one left

© Janet Martin