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Leaves (Marking the Occasion When a Late Summer Proceeded an Early Autumn):

Veiny, waxy, useless things
(That is, without the slow tide
Of season).  And what’s more:
Fastened to their guardians
Like some animal
Or clumsy toddler
As if it would – could - do something
Wrong
Given the chance.

Dirty, untidy, slippery things
In a constant fidget
And at the mercy of everything;
Reliant ‘til the bitter drop
Then trodden on,
Walked over
And grown:
Grown to be discarded
(I pity with a pointed finger
As many as I can).

Shameless, mindless, soulless things,
I laugh with spite at every one
As October resuscitates
A wheezing September sun
As if it were a last gasp apology
For not arriving
When the season called for it.
I need answers!
(There’s never a judicial enquiry
When you damn-well need one)

Hateful, blameful, disdainful things,
Flip flops kicking
Lifeless piles of brittle mistakes
(This supposed Autumn
Is our supposed Summer)
That nature has not the slightest
Contingency for.
If I could give a rake to
Mother Nature,
I damn-well would.

And when she was finished,
She would be drawn to their origins
Like attracting magnets
And tie them
Back to the trees
Like a mother tying a child’s shoelace,
Knelt with looping reminders
And a double-knotted blessing:
Make sure you eat your fruit
I’ve given you;
Make sure you give Mrs Dyer
Your milk money:

Make sure you don’t float back down to Earth,
‘Til Autumn truly breaks.   

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