Season of mists

The cold autumn rain falls full in my face,

wet westerlies come with a trace of winter;

as I walk, I take account of my losses.

My mind drifts into the past:

a phantasmagoria of well-remembered faces

tumble into the valley of the shadow of death.

Phantoms afloat, all around me, looking quizzically

at the remains of a life long left or soonest parted.

The trees of this woodland path,

 tossed by these wild Atlantic storms,

are a comfort to me,

as is my dog who walks with me.

Leaves tumble faster now, clutching onto branches,

resisting their fall into winter's icy embrace.

 

Image result for autumn woodland storm mist

◄ Yezedi - 2014-2019

Translating the rain ►

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