Pennine Sunset
The sun sets over the western hills
Infusing the low clouds, blood red.
The wind gently plys her deft fingers
Making dry grasses rap at her touch;
Rippling through the scant leaves,
Who bravely cling to bared branches
The last of summers children,
Soon to die, return to black earth.
The slow northern twilight
Diffuses in the autumn mist
The cool night descends velvet
The moon rises ascendant
To rule her nocturnal realm.
poem by Paul Brookes
Added by Poetry Lover
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