october sings to the grey hills
where the cloud fades and drifts
into the summits
like white turrets of a purple sea
captured in the moonlight,
the moon’s chandeliers glitter
with candles.
the house is better for an open fire
plumping silk cushions
on a ragged sofa,
(they are best worn out with love)
midnight wears an evening gown.
the rain sinks into the
white walls and the
beech hedge,
has its own pitter patter
like bare feet running
through a wood,
the sky's hair is high upon her head.
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