Victoria Mosley

 

 

What became

of us,

 

with the passing

of hours?

 

Children fly

from me

 

birds murmur

in hedgerow

 

scout the bare trees

for shelter.

 

Autumn arrives

in puffs & billows

 

pillow clouds

swaddling.

 

All is not

as it seems

 

decisions reached

paths chosen:

 

mind circles back

on itself

 

I’m singing in

this wind

 

demanding

resolution.