A Quiet Autumn.

November falls mildly this year, and smiles On afternoon strolls, beckoning boldly Through grey clouding skies, as mile upon mile Surrounds us, in stylish profusion, yet bringing More mellowed finery cocooned under Ageing, untidy greens. Fashioned now in Patches of yellowy gorse, which blunders Pushily through hedgerows of sun-weary Browns, with praiseworthy splashes of brighter Than buttercup flowers, they lighten dreary Old blackberry bushes, now ready for striking Their own winter pose. Buzzard flies low, scans Lacy trees, ready naked for Autumn's planned Passionless sleep. It seems lust for growing Must be on hold. Miniscule diamonds float Mistily down, quickly wetting the ground, So, taking our cue, we leave without sound.