The wind rifles my pages,

But I’d stay out here for ages…

The sunlight mild

And leaves whipping wild,

Are stuff of artists and sages!

Men and women add

Layers–not so bad…

Gusts turn cold

Making old,

People miss what they had.

Seasons keep turning around,

Soon snow and cold abound…

Snow flakes flying

Over seagulls crying,

For scraps along the ground!

–Jonathan Caswell

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