November Gales (2016)
November gales have yet to blow
before the horns of winter sound;
the violent gusts that bend the trees
and turn the seasons upside down.
November squalls have yet to come
out of the mouth of Georgian Bay
riling its waves to a spindrift pitch
of greenish fury filled with spray.
They’ve yet to strip the maples bare.
Shear every leaf on oak and ash.
They’ve yet to come as though
a rushing freight train had just passed.
I wonder why they’re late this year
for silver bugles cannot blow
until first come November gales
to herald the embassies of snow.
And so they wait upon the wind
but now November’s almost gone
as though a dying trumpeter
had quite forgot to sing it’s song.