November ends,

Signalling the start of another conclusion.


Curatorial time keepers clear shelves,

For next year’s phenomenal manifestations.

While hidden somewhere, a sapling dreams,

Of sunlight and colour.


Men, talk about ageing,

Another year closer to death.


Conditioned to follow the wind,

Birds sing about a homeland,

That banishes them every year episodically.

Still, like clockwork their hearts beat patient.


Stories of yesterday,

Find their way into history books.


Children imagine futures,

Made of spaceships, time travel and possibility.

While somewhere, closer to the equator,

Someone, wishes for ankle deep snow and frozen rivers.


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