Mark Murphy

 

November Ontology

 

Crisp the silence, red the sun-down

through sulphurous clouds, 

past dying leaves, fire and gold.

 

Now we move between sycamores –

                                              past the fountain 

of youth, where college girls hitch up

their skirts in summer –  

                                      only a memory now

through the thick veil of November rain,

the sad contact with each human being;

 

     the smug smog of youthful immortality.

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray