Broken, but still beating hearts

grieve close by to where we

have been picking off dead

leaves brought down in flight,

swirling in the dog fight of autumnal

trepidation that all soon will be mulch,

trodden down with the finger wag

of open graveside talk, the freedom

to explain away our troubles

to the deaf underground.

In this council setting,

set between the river and consuming

life, there is no beauty, all is bleak and

September day groaning with the weight

of the year gained…

…soon be January,

and the time will be new,

I expect to see the same group, just yards

away, crying softly

and making the snow melt before its time.

Ian D. Hall 2018