November.

The beach stretches out
towards the rumbling traffic of the waves.
There is no horizon,
only shades of emptiness.
The stiff brown ghosts of summer flowers
sit calmly in the damp air,
remembering.
A distant figure moves along the waters edge,
someone and no one,
he will be there always,
alongside the crows who wait in the mist
and the crying gulls.

And left behind among the blackened knots
of last seasons uneaten blackberries
a ragged blossom shivers.
It will never reach the dark sweetness
of a ripened fruit,
but it can still imagine.

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One comment on “November.

  1. I love this poem, and the way the lines move in and out, as does the sea.

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