Tuesday, August 6, 2013

The Fall

When apples fall
like pocket watches
among the trees
and leaves
like closing old hands,
the fog is rising,
old souls
over the green.

There is a quietness
like padded feet
or, quietest of all,
the droplets
playing in the hedge;
and the grumpy whimper
of hedgehogs
scuttling for their sleep. 

Most of all I notice
                the thud of Winters
changing children into men.


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