November

by Gregory Bailey

Grey and grim the sky, ironclad with toiling clouds;
Sunless light filters through the dripping leaves
of a grove of pale trees and thorns brown with autumn.

A sudden shocking rustle as a sleek dark bird awakes
And, cawing, flaps heavily to perch on a lower branch,
Displacing a shower of drops to the sodden moss below.

Sound resonates violently through the wind-whipped grove,
Sacrilegious like a scream in a place of silence;
Before the trees regroup and in their circle,
Silent, still, they turn their thorns inwards.