As the last of the lingering leaves fall <br />an owl call for the seasons end. <br /> <br />Trees stripped stand thin and exposed <br />The pillage of summers fading village. <br /> <br />Under feet we sink into the slush, a brown <br />mushy mess, decay has never smelt so fresh. <br /> <br />Clouds congregate above they are full <br />of promise, they steal the blue of the sky. <br /> <br />Smoke rises slowly in the distance, we <br />gather our thoughts and promise a change<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-may-have-been-written-before-but-every-season/
