FIVE FIFTY-FIVE Moon hangs like a wire in the sky above tree touched roofs of semi-detached houses while clouds become waves marking the passage
of afternoon into evening. Looking down upon
pale yellowish leaves
scattered on the moist green
not daring to dance against
the moods of a capricious wind
which casts away scraps of
discarded memories
Meanwhile, from an upstairs window,
a small red-haired figure
imagines these scenes in his mind
before writing them down on paper
hoping to make some poetry
out of all pictures he sees
on this bleak autumnal weekday. © Julius Howard
