The stubble of the wheatfield
And the vast November sky
The tracery of branches bare
And I, and I, and I.
Life is so short and filled with things
And sorrow mixed with joy
The splendid that enrapture
The petty that annoy.
The clouds are grey, the fields are brown,
The distant hills are black
But light within and light without
Brings all the colour back.
Petrarch had poor mute Homer
He held but could not read
This train propels me onward
And I have all I need.
November 12th 2015
