November. Cold is splashed from the sky kettle.
And gleaming moisture doesn't keep up to dry
from rain to rain. Birds hide in found shelters.
Just thick gray clouds fly in the dull sky.
Gnarled bare trees branches try to catch the clouds
to put them on and warmth themselves in wool
before one day changes it to brightly sparkling
and weightless coat, knitted by the pale Moon.
Landscape is dull. November is the master,
who can sketch up the saddest work of art,
but heather flame under frail move-less plum trees
can't be obscured* with a gray soggy brush.
by Thea Ariss
02.11.2025
*obscure - затушевывать
Heather flame
© Copyright: Тея Арис, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125110208808
Свидетельство о публикации №125110208808
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