The pale blue
early morning light
almost ( but not quite )
the colour of a Robin's egg
arcs into the attic .
The faded memories of summer
sit naked in the thin
tree branches
wondering where the year has gone.
November scents
everywhere
like baskets of bright red apples
sitting under
a
sky of perfect softness.
So many days in a year
365
they fly by so fast
almost as if
they had angel wings.
Did someone whisper
that Christmas is coming?
Silent night
holy
holy night
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Pretty misty stars