"And, all about, the vacant plot,
Was peopled and inhabited
By scores of mulleins long since dead.
A silent and forsaken brood
In that mute opening of the wood,
So shrivelled and so thin they were,
So gray, so haggard, and austere,
Not plants at all they seemed to me,
But rather some spare company
Of hermit folk, who long ago,
Wandering in bodies to and fro,
Had chanced upon this lonely way,
And rested thus, till death one day
Surprised them at their compline prayer,
And left them standing lifeless there."

                 In November

     Archibald Lampman

I had been considering a posting on the

beautiful fall colours we were having when

a few weeks ago it snowed and stayed and

stayed. Then last week I was going to take

some photos of the lovely frost we were having

and it mostly melted before I got any photos.

But while I was taking these photos it occurred to

me that everything I came across seemed trapped

between seasons.  There as the last remnants of

the bright summer green, leeched to paler pastel

shades and finally to the rustling grey white pages of

winter.  The reds are bleeding to brown amid the

faded blue greens of the spruce.
 

And it was not just the plants that were caught

in the net of the seasons.

 

" I cannot ride this wind into summer.

Still, it is doubtful who is encaged: all

the bigger trees are bare; black

they reach into grey sky

like ornamental ironwork-

against which blow the belated birds"
 

                   From My Window: Late November

              D.G. Jones