We will travel together, November,
to a solitary place, alone,
serendipity we’ll remember,
as we take the long journey home.
There’ll be time to put pen to paper,
to reflect on rhythm and rhyme,
to key and tone developing thoughts,
to edit words so fine.
There’ll be time to sit and relax,
to do simply nothing at all,
pile wild weasel words up
on November racks,
while poetry holds us in thrall.
Polly Stretton © 2012