Autumn
Through morning misty rain, the berries bright
with temptation:
we watch the distant hills.
High upon the moors, slowly creep the smoke
of clouds, colder
than our dew soaked boots.
Something has changed, the sweet chestnuts split
from their shells
to whisper Christmas.
And we walk by, looking ever upward,
smelling only the gathering shower
now falling on the cairn.
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