November Woods

 These are not my words, but a poem I have gone back to every November since 1979, when November meant the beginning of the hot, often dry, season in Botswana.

November Woods

Lovely are the silent woods,

on grey November days.

When the leaves fall red and gold, 

upon the quiet ways.

From massive beech, majestic oak

and birches white and slim,

Like the pillared aisles of a cathedral,

vast and dim.

Drifting mist, like smoking incense,

hangs upon the air.

Along the paths where birds once sang,

the trees stand stripped and bare.

Making Gothic arches with their

branches interlaced,

And window-framing vistas,

richly wrought and finely traced.

It is good to be in such a place,

on such a day.

Problems vanish from the mind

and sorrow steals away.

In the woods of grey November,

silent and austere, 

Nature gives her benediction to

the passing year.

                                                      Patience Strong
                                                     (British Poet)