Now tilts light into November.
Sags Ol' Sol low in shortened day.
Now is the season of pallored earth.
Time when cracked-open kernels decay.

Now with no violence ground sleeps.
Beds the worm down in blackened grass.
Now, burnt-out all heat in harvested fields
Time eases flight while growth turns to ashes.

Now slows to drowse wise November.
Mutes to silence past labours of birthing.
Now into seared dreams of tired meadows
Time breathes but whispers of far-off Spring.

Now seems the time to leave pre-winter
quietly savouring November's short peace.