a stinging wind prowls

pell-mell through a garden,

bare trees shiver above their

erstwhile burnished striptease,

their matted leaves lie dull

and fractured like golden stars,

decaying galaxies daubed upon

paths and grass,

what little sun there is hides

behind a battered fence, itself

a casualty of the ceaseless blow,

old slats askew throw pallid light

spears through this sullen scene,

stars and bars presage the death

of yet another disappointing day

 

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24