His Autumn Leaving Poem by Timmy Angel Naylor

This whispering hour in the Autumn
Lends best to consider his way.
His looking, frail, through pale frames, and
Pensive.
Twisting wistful fingers
In the descending season,
The bringing down of his Spring-born bud-shot
Being,
For his time, What he was meant to be.
Then leaf-fall weaves it's patterns down the wind that fans the pyre.
For him is the losing of limb-shone
Fun-lashed laughter.
And worn-out fantasies
In tumbled-down years.
(And lost in his leaving, his half-chased truths)
Alone in his own slight falling past,
Skeletal, earth torn,
Burning.

Timmy Angel Naylor