Category: Serious

The chill in the air is foreboding,

The fields lose their green overflowing.

The year takes its bow,

’Neath frost’s gentle vow,

As warmth through the dusk starts eroding.

We’re warm inside by the fire,

As the winds outside rise higher.

The storm softly moans,

Through the chimney stones,

While the night folds the world to retire.

I trampled on leaves so brown,

As daylight began to drown.

Each rustle beneath,

Was time’s softest wreath,

On the path where the year slows down.

The Great Western train advances,

Through fields where the sunlight dances.

It rumbles with pride,

As the hills slip aside,

And the world through the window entrances.

To be or not to be, a question

To a nobler mind, a suggestion:

To die, to sleep,

to dream of sheep:

This is Hamlet in his depression