Leaves
Not the virile young saps of spring,
Nor the flaming orange stags of autumn,
Only litter;
Dry unwilling fragments,
Tossed in October’s brittle wind,
Pale ragged tatters,
Dribbling in November’s sullen fog,
Pained dishevelled stalks,
Shrivelled in December’s frozen glaze,
The disgust;
Feeling the fear folding against my chest.
