Autumn Yields to Winter

There’s a murder in the evening air
retreating to the treeline
and in the sunset distance
a murmuration weaves
its mobius of swirling hush
mellifluous in silent rush
and in the tush a clutch of mice
rehomes from sickled sheaves.

The sky’s a little darker now;
the breeze a little colder.
The alder and the ancient oak
have jettisoned their leaves.
The mist is ghosting on the fields,
Autumn yields to winter
and the flying fox shall sleep ’til Spring
upended in the eaves.

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© LorraineVoss.Nov2025