Poem: ‘A Place In November’


A gun-metal sky hangs over

The lake, which is oil-black

And loud as it folds into itself

Again and again until it reaches

The shore and my boots.

Behind, town lights blink on

As eyes ready to shut.

Maple leaves, dead and grey,

Are picked up and scattered

As a child mindlessly throws stones.

I have been standing here for decades

But I have never seen it like this.

This place has never lived through a fall.

What season comes next?


By S.M.G. Dupel


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