Montcoffer
The wood is beautiful
Even in the twilight of November.
The only noise is the river,
Gushing away as if surprised by its own loudness.
The trees are all but bare, their leaves
Turned to soft umber beneath the feet.
The skies in between the colour of wool,
Raindrops left globed on twig and on moss.
The wood has stopped breathing,
The wood is asleep,
Till the first sprig of life
Greens the slump of long months
And the crystalling of wrens
Brings the beginning of spring.
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