Christopher Withers


on this autumnal day


balding trees echo with
the memory of recent rain,
their quiet voice mourns their loss
with twisted black hands
held skywards.

dormant grass, covered
in blanket, spun
from golden tears,
quietly dreams
of warm summer breeze.

grey sky mirrors the hue
of infected urban sprawl,
masking its sharp ugliness
from the pure blue of sky.

a million voices wither and die,
dreams fade to darkness,
on this,
cold autumn day.

Submitted: Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Edited: Saturday, November 13, 2010

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