By GAtherton

By the window I sat watching the November sky,

my thoughts were distant, my spirits were high;
the old clock ticked lazily on the sitting room wall,
and names down the chimney the wind did call.
As the last of the sun flooded the room,
already the clouds revealed the moon.
People rushing from the cold, red cheeks and purple noses,
coats pulled up to their faces, and by the fire my little dog dozes.
In the garden the old tree stood, patiently waiting as time passed by;
its bare branches, like long fingers, clawing up at the darkening sky.
I sit alone with my dream, with many things to remember;
my mind belongs somewhere else, in cold and frosty November.