In Slow Autumn...
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In slow autumn, I sense my own ageing,
As the leaves turn from deepest green to brown,
Tainted gold and rusted red. The singing
Of wild birds is muted. The subtle sounds
Of silence seem to whisper to me like
Ghosts. The vintage blood of October feels
A little colder as each year goes by.
And I am often plagued by eerie dreams.
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