My November poem

DEATH IN NOVEMBER

Still as a graveyard. Veiled in grey

The land lies dying this November day.

Silent and sombre, tree trunks stand

Watching over this wilting land.

Swathes of bracken, once bold and green

Sit hunched and bent at the dying scene.

Leaves so bright like fiery flame

Their final fling. What a shame.

Dead leaves dumped along the lane

Slain by the wind, the cold and the rain.

Bright red berries without their shine.

Their life or death is borderline.

The once green grass now pale, prostrate

Takes a rest from standing straight.

Green Ivies still look smug and bright

No matter what ,they'll be all right.

A broken twig, all gnarled and black

Lies lifeless on its shattered back.

This death won't last. There's no denying.

But in November the land lies dying.