winter calling

after all the conkers fell

in the dingles of the dell

then the squirrels ran away

snuggled up within their drey

see the branches bearing all

like a painter strips a wall

while the sunken sun is bright

in between the frozen night’s

frosted fingers frisking us

in the absence of a buzz

from a single bumblebee

or a butterfly t’see

autumn’s glory left alone

crackles on the telephone

winter calling – there’s the twat

grab some gloves ‘n’ wear a hat

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