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 finish...