Poem of the Week 70

Almost New Year

Brian Moses

 

It’s the last afternoon

of the old year

and already a full fat moon

is in charge of the sky.

It has nudged the sun

into a distant lake

and left it to drown,

while bare branch trees

like blackened fireworks

burst with sunset.

Frost is patterning the fields,

a tractor tries to furrow

the iron hard hill.

Winter’s frown settles

on the face of the landscape.

It shrugs its shoulders,

gives in to January.

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