Our feet fall where the leaves fall,
a season’s growth shed
without fanfare, soon forgot.
And who remembers last year’s leaves,
raked, composted or burned,
mere sheaths of life discarded
like our own lives, one day.
Only morose acceptance of decay
allows this annual admiration of colour,
where minor arpeggios play
through lands in the thrall of winter

copyright Francis Barker 2019