November Ghosts

Woollen coats

And past memoirs,

Faint echoes of

The frost beneath feet;

Not one pair

Or two,

But three in neatened row,

Trailing off to nowhere,

Gossamer nowhere,

As cold as winter air,

Without such bite;

In the distance

Lies shapes unclear,

Moulded to the sky,

Unhappy hearts,

Set where they were sat,

Along the misted ridge;

Silence clambers on

Amongst the

Broken highway

Of the past,

And some clouded

November ghosts.

The End

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