Saturday, 7 November 2009

Autumn 1

"The freed leaves, blood-coloured, gush fruitfully down. " [Fraser]

Onto the black ground
the trees drizzle leaves
with cloudy benevolence.

Cars rattle their phlegm;
umbrellas sprout their fungi.
The mulch and clutter of morning.

Each and every streetlamp
is the light of the world.
The wind trails its invisible

silk gown over the floor.
And all the trees are
ponderously headbanging

to a tune only they can hear.

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