I sit amongst the slow death of autumn,
mourner for the splendid season passed,
still warm, but draped with funereal shades
and the keen astringent tincture of musk.
Like the wily fox
a breeze steals between some broken slats
carefully, but slowly, circling the listless leaves
then with a single bark
stampedes the cackling henflakes into a panicked spin
rising up, now plunging, crashing
like skating claws that scar the garden fence.
Empty flowerpots tack and yaw
Like paper boats atop this maelstrom
Then spin noisily away to safe harbour.
Sated, the zephyr idly slinks away
to leave a magic morsel for my amusement.
Two brittle-slim willow leaves hang impossibly
in plain sight, an illusion, tumbling like gymnasts
or bronzed ballerinas held in time, performing
on the slightest line of spider’s web
puppets in a sallow requiem.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2013
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