Late November - and after a long mild English autumn, last weekend's gales have almost stripped the trees and the repeated rain has reduced the fallen leaves to red-brown wet debris.

The mildness of the air has gone - we even woke to sprinkling of snow yesterday, almost unheard of for this month and although today is a little warmer it is grey and drizzling _ Thomas Hood's poem 'November' sums it up.

I suspect the traditional fondness of poets for autumn is based on September and October (think Keats's 'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness') and in November they become more sombre in mood - summer gone, spring too far away to contemplate and only the prospect of Christmas to stave off thoughts of January cold feet and February mud...

So, to fit in with the season I have put a few November type poems into the mix plus a sad love poem I wrote at a reflective writing course many years ago.

But... Christmas is coming and it's only 13 weeks to the first daffodils -even less if you live in Cornwall.

A happy and blessed Christmas to you all

Ian

The picture is Ben More, in Mull, photographed in December 2023 from south coast of the Morvern peninsula in Western Scotland : the Gulf Stream can make autumn in those parts last even longer than in Lincolnshire

Haiku

Last gold leaves defy

Winter’s call to despair and fall

Foretell future hope.

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