Autumn 2019 Poem by James Smith

In this wet autumn, leaves slither in dark clumps under foot,
The late hangers on glow golden brown against black trunks,
All will be gone at the first wind but while they remain
Winter still seems far away, as yet an afterthought.

We watch unfeeling the decay's rapid spread
The rot, the mould, the smothering fungi
Engulfing all that bright foliage, turned sepia now
And brought unwillingly and finally to earth.

Time to think of new beginnings, at least to plan
Should there be energy for such things,
Or hope enough to spare for those endeavours.
Routinely perhaps, far away, we will consider Spring.