Autumn

She dances slowly in the wind,
turning her head
to face the sun
and golden shine
to catch a glow
one last time.

She whispers: “The winter is coming,
much too soon.

She slips her sleeve
and bares a shoulder
vulnerable, shy
and with a blush of red
invites the cold
and twilight’s dread.

She whispers: “The winter is coming,
much too soon.

Her garment falls
with grace and beauty
and no recoil or shiver
she holds her breath in silence
naked and exposed
and ponders spring’s valence

She whispers: “Our love has died,
much too soon.


Credits:
Images: Francois Lubbe.
Text: FR Lubbe


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