…a disguise

The last flowers are trembling in the chasms of darkness
the sun has abandoned the stage
the wind, gentle but strong carves waves through the long grass
the harbinger of winter, a warning to all growing things
butterflies seeking refuge, their fragility their nemesis
birds call unseen as they circle out into the distance
their echoes mournful and fading
as the season turns and the nights grow longer
silence descends upon the earth
nothing moves unless the wind wills it
the once wild woods stand barren
the emptiness of leafless trees stark and seemingly lifeless
a cyclical illusion, a disguise
waiting for the return of summer skies
© Ann Bagnall