The Sunday's slowly going to cold noon,
but nature has been fallen in sweet dreams.
A valley's dozing under thick fog wool.
Landscape looks rather ghostly in gray steam.
November charms with frescoes in dull paints,
quite lovely powdered with the last gold leaves
of birches. They burn on tips of dark thin branches,
reviving pictures have been veiled by mists.
And rare bright sun beams look strangely odd
on cloth of the pearl sky. The gold thin stripes
pierce canvas of thick clouds. Wind mends holes:
gray colors then splash down from high above.
by Thea Ariss
02.11.2025
The Sunday s slowly going to cold noon
© Copyright: Тея Арис, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125110207875
Свидетельство о публикации №125110207875
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