It is Winter.
The trees are bare,
Under them lie tones of primary colours.
Blue contrasts green.
Once more, within days of lockdown, the weather improves.
The skies have white clouds.
They’ve replaced the dark brooding ones i looked out the windows of study at.
I salute them,
Hi!
I wont see you very often in the coming months
You are beautiful.
Trees, you will litter the ground with colours I only know this time of year.
Our year is a bare tree.
It seems stunted in growth,
No beauty in leaves.
We think it dead.
This one tree I see is bare.
It seems isolated to the browns and oranges surrounding it.
Yet it stands tall,
The tallest in fact
My eye is caught by gold reflected in the leaves.
The fields look healthy and green.
But not for much longer.
They will pale with frost
And discolour in dew.
In these months
I see houses I never knew existed.
You have hidden them from me
In the presence of Persephone
And shaded them in happiness.
Now, in Winter, in November, in grief
You no longer protect them.
You leave them no beauty to gaze upon.
You leave them bare.
Our year is a bare tree and
We think it dead.