What is it about November <br />that always gives me the blues? <br />Is it the sky, heavy as sin <br />or is it the wind that seems to whistle <br />through the caverns of my skull? <br />Is it the earth, once warm and loving <br />but now grown hard and cold? Is it <br />all the fallen fruit that lies <br />and rots upon those grassy places <br />where I tread? Everywhere there is <br />the decadence and hush of dying leaves — <br />decay and death, I seem to drift, <br />a disembodied wraith, through mist <br />that settles like a shroud <br />upon that plain without a name — <br />though some would call it Limbo — <br />that land of stranded souls, <br />lost, damned or just forgotten. <br />Oh let me soon climb out of this <br />slough of despond, and cast aside <br />November blues to find delight <br />again in love, colour, laughter, light.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-blues/
