November, Dim November

Autumn’s wind and rain strip away green,
bring an old copper sheen back to oaks.

But November, November, dim November,
you are mostly memory notched by night.

So this morning I wait and watch the gulls
turn long and slow, listless over the harbour.

The shallow angle of sunlight rings low notes
against the water’s belled curve to the horizon.

A flight of cormorants passes, dark and silent,
only the wind from wingtips stirs the surface.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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