November

A day as grey as

the clouds above it

And the hills, which have changed from green to orange to purple to a deepest blue in the fading light

with a few bursts of yellow from the beech trees, holding on in their marcescence

Sadness is a blight 

to which there is no cure

but time.

Indeed, it can be eased like swallowing pills for a chronic pain

but it doesn't ever seem to leave.

Walking through barren woods, which is barren of its leaves but not it's memories, nor it's life, though that one is harder to find

Running with my hair down, feeling it flow with the air through which it winds feels as if it

takes

a little pain away

And raindrops begin to fall

a few 

and more

then many,

recycling tears which have run dry.

Sadness comes as sadness goes, never gone, not always there

but just around the corner

morbid, maybe, a depressive take on life

but true, is it not?

Maybe it is not such a bad thing

because I do my best writing when I am sad.

Trees blow in the wind

and the words

as I am washed clean by the rain.