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

The Old Songs

Take me to the rugged sea

where waves crash in like bombing raids

to smash against the castles

that we made when we were young.

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Park me in the rolling dunes;

our winter coats like barricades.

I’ll sketch the scene in pastels

while you sing the songs we’ve sung.

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Despite It All

From foliage once overgrown
a wind blown Rowan
loans her leaves to the ground.

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Winter storms will rape and lash
this berry forfeit Mountain Ash
but undressed she is flexible, pliant

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yet reliant on the season’s squall
to build her up,
                  despite it all…

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©LorraineVoss.Oct2025