November

So cold
Mist freezes
On leafless trees,
Every stick and stem
White.

Orion rises late;
The dwindling days
Prey to his dogs
And weapons.

Skies are black now
With cloud or without.
Stars stud the illusion
Of heaven.

Even in clear air
Before ice grows
Bleached on the boughs
The surfaces of the world
Glisten under a moon rising.

Underfoot, the grass
Creaks and bends as I step,
Hollows my tracks
Across the path.

If there is any direction
To the wind, it changes
As the night whispers;
It blows where it will
Like cold sorrow.

Long ago, summer
Left the muirlands alone,
Fading to autumn’s brown
And dreamless sleep.

Rainwater gathered
In secret rivers
High in the hills, from rain
In the darkening hours.

November bows
To winter, in the end,
Lets darkness grow again
In the bones of the year.

The air is solid with cold
The night with nothing
But pointed starlight.

© BH, 2016

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Just at the end of November, in time for one last piece for the month. Half an hour well spent. All done just before midnight.

And, yes, that's this November's supermoon (with added Orion).