Autumn Grieves

Autumn Grieves
(13th October 2008, 11.25am, 14th October 2008, 2.29pm)

The trees, as one, drop their leaves
in horror at the cold that creeps
up trunks and branches, shuddering
their finery into rags that disintegrate
like so many distressed damsels;
they whisper into the river, that
gently moving mirror, calm before
the winter floods stir mud into froth.

A slow wind raises a grumbling; as if
shedding is painful, somehow; wilting
skins decorate the stern and begin to
rot to blackness. I must sweep, clear,
clean before the leaf-mould settles and
the rust sets in, but when to begin?
They will keep on coming, the trees
reluctant to be naked all at once.

I can hear the rain fall like the sound
of applause on the mirror’s flat, grey
surface; a tarmaccaddam road that
winds, leading the way to Oz, but
I have lost my red shoes; they rubbed
my feet that night in Bath, all night
dancing to foreign beats, and the sores
lived on past the tiredness and snores.

The rain has ceased. Wind sleeps.
I sweep the pontoon, disturbing the
sleeping ducks, apologise with bready
offerings. The dog is jealous, leaps and
barks, launches the fluttering wings;
Francis Drake the heaviest, plunging like
a drunkard, skittering, settling, wary;
the swans just hiss, necks raised.