October lends itself to poems,
a month of intangible things –
the restless mists which follow me home,
the sickle moon’s Cheshire cat grin.

As nights draw in and days grow short,
the wind whispers “It’s time”
to listen to autumnal thoughts,
to curl up inside and write.

With careful charcoal pencil strokes,
I pin them down to read –
words which twist like bonfire smoke,
on paper that rustles like leaves.

Happy Poetry Day!

And what better time to plug my new book – Labyrinth: One classic film, fifty-five sonnets.


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