Oh, garden of England…

Low-hung clouds a soft caress to tree-topped hills

brush over high, proud breasts of verdant boughs;

willow’s waves reminiscent of Pre-Raphaelite locks

swaying in the ever-more-violent breeze…

The seasonal prelude to winter brewing

to blow from land and mind all memory

of long-faded summer.

Moist kiss of drizzly air feeds leaves

turned golden, changing red to brown;

lays itself close to skin pale now, tan gone

and covered up in layers of wool.

How cool the mornings, and yet

how stunning.  They wait – eager –

for frost’s first coming.

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