by Mark Head

There is a timing to the Autumn season one supposes
Cool nights, clear skies without the scent of roses
Falling leaves in wind draft final throes falling in anticipation of new frost
Undressed tree trunks stark in early morning mist
Pecked over by white birds caterwauling over green seeds or a meal missed
How ample is such a time in needs recuperation
The seasons follow one another as nature’s custom has decreed
For now is the time for nature’s sleeping regeneration.


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