Second version
A slate grey sky stretches
over banks of chestnuts and birches,
presses against sleep-filled houses; subdues birdsong.
A sober morning stirs as soundlessly as ghosts in purgatory,
still festooned in summer’s Bacchanal greens, reds and yellows.
original version
A slate grey sky (if you can call it that)
stretches wearily over banks of chestnuts and birches,
presses against sleep-filled houses; subdues birdsong.
A sober morning stirs as soundlessly as ghosts in purgatory,
still festooned in summer’s Bacchanal greens, reds and yellows.
