The Grey Months

A season of rinsed colours, 

Reckons with my heart the most, 

When smoke makes its way into my nose, 

Lays like mysterious fog upon my eyes, 

And even my tongue, when it tastes the air, 

Notices how old the world has grown. 

As leaves fall away and gnarled limbs become apparent, 

Old stories of ancient knots and love triangles, 

Where bough to bough some brave bird leaps, 

Risking limbs to the danger of frostbite.

This sacrificial air, 

Has not a thought for comfort, care or life’s renewal, 

A time for hidden souls,

A time for life to beware. 

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