November 8

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Title:     November 8
Author: John Presland [More Titles by Presland]

THE LITTLE SUMMER OF ALL SAINTS

The year stands still, the tearing winter winds
Hold off their claws a moment, that the trees
May keep the glory of their blended gold
A little minute; there's not so much breeze
As summer mornings hold.

Golden and still the hours; russet gold
The birch-leaves o'er the silver of the bark;
Pale gold the poplars, like a lady's hair,
And thunderous gold along the hollows dark
The sunlit brackens flare.

[The end]
John Presland's poem: November 8

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