WINTER TO COME
A violet-grey pall has lopped o’er the peninsula
Winds whip with a counter clockwise rotation
Snow mounds to the west and miles to the north
The scent perceivable, sharp white and cold
Gusts dictate the wood to waggle wildly, vanishing
Parchments of golden leaves leaving branches bare
The gale force laughs boisterously with intermittent roars
An extended dramatic composition of a coming Winter
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