Thursday, 23 October 2014

Written nearly forty autumns ago…

Charred-brown these ringèd fingers

Charred-brown these ringèd fingers sway,
Scattering their summer clay
Of leaves that billow, then stop still, until
Again they fly.

Golden-green these crusting, rusting leaves
That fall like feathers to the breeze:
Down to the frosty, mossy ground, where, still,
They wait to die.

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