October leaves on the footpath
and pond
were
galaxies, star-shaped maple;
colours
of evening, hearth colours;
of
a
year whose duties have been
seen to;
of
hands when
the deal is done.
Russet,
reds, yellows, browns:
colours
of contentment, of retiring.
In
November they were rotting, blackening
in
sodden heaps, turning
rapidly back to humus,
my
October stars. In December they were gone,
but
had left hand-shaped
traces all over the
path,
waving
back,
those happy souls
