As the last of the lingering leaves fall
an owl call for the seasons end.
Trees stripped stand thin and exposed
The pillage of summers fading village.
Under feet we sink into the slush, a brown
mushy mess, decay has never smelt so fresh.
Clouds congregate above they are full
of promise, they steal the blue of the sky.
Smoke rises slowly in the distance, we
gather our thoughts and promise a change
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-may-have-been-written-before-but-every-season/
