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.
No comments:
Post a Comment