Pale ice-dome sky rises
Out of a peach-gold sunset,
Arching over the darkening town,
Its vast expanse broken
By cloud-smoke swathes of lilac and grey,
And silhouetted shapes of trees and rooftops.
Flame robed trees,
Pin-oaks, poplars and maples,
Shed their exotic garments piecemeal,
Lifting their nuding limbs to the cold sky,
In dancing defiance
Of winterís presaged chill.
Lost in their iPod worlds and
Deaf to the barking of neighbourhood dogs,
Crunch carelessly over the gold-brown carpet of leaves
That smothers the road verges,
And puff breath clouds measure their cadent passing.
As gloom descends and ice-blue sky turns to dusky grey,
Street lights open their bright eyes
Winking a welcome
To home bound cars
And wood-smoke drifts from tall chimneys
Against the charcoal sky.
My spirits lift
As a voice within,
Speaking of light and warmth,
Of armchairs and fire light
And air redolent
With the smell of home cooking
Calls me home to my hillside refuge.
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