What is it about November
that always gives me the blues?
Is it the sky, heavy as sin
or is it the wind that seems to whistle
through the caverns of my skull?
Is it the earth, once warm and loving
but now grown hard and cold? Is it
all the fallen fruit that lies
and rots upon those grassy places
where I tread? Everywhere there is
the decadence and hush of dying leaves —
decay and death, I seem to drift,
a disembodied wraith, through mist
that settles like a shroud
upon that plain without a name —
though some would call it Limbo —
that land of stranded souls,
lost, damned or just forgotten.
Oh let me soon climb out of this
slough of despond, and cast aside
November blues to find delight
again in love, colour, laughter, light.