Cold slits like a knife
through the reminiscence of summer.
The crows, like ants,
gather and scatter against
Wind thrums, winter’s first yawn
rippling through the world,
and the leaves fall like cards from
spindly brown fingers.
The crown of gold, lifted from the earth
amidst the mists of September,
darkens into the dusky orange of a pumpkin.
Some ways off, the birds call
(not to each other, but to the receding glow
of the sun;
with furiously beating wings,
they follow it to the ends of the earth.)
Hands and toes curling against
the settling chill,
we blink blearily at the insistent tapping of rain
against our rooftops
and hum tunelessly to the rhythm it pounds.
Autumn – in all its quiet, unassuming splendour –