Dead leaves which lately clad the trees
in autumn colours brave and bold.
Are scattered by the playful breeze
Their day is done their story told
Their purpose served they’re obsolete.
A dry dead blanket on the ground
which when disturbed by passing feet.
Produce a crisply rustling sound.
The earth will re absorb them all
though slowly, there’s no need for haste.
A process which is typical
of natures attitude to waste.
What has been used will be re used
and very little is refused.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.