Copyright © Isabella Dalzell 2018. All RIghts Reserved.
Autumn yawns in like the warm
breath of a Serengeti lion
wind stirs the bronzed leaves
as they dry, falling to the ground
in clumps of red, gold and green.
Scorched summer grass returns plush.
Paired birds dance in the sky
swirling, soaring southerly, purple
peonies wither back into the ground
and mint waves on shrivelled stalks.
Squirrels grab the strewn acorns
stuffing pouched cheeks with hazelnuts
sprightly sparrows return to the gardens;
flurrying flight to pluck the swelling berries
damp and misty on the morning grass.
Autumn blushes the apple skin
golden-red, wasps suck the juice,
nibbling caves into the white-green
flesh. Dry-stemmed, it falls,
shrinks, crumpled from within
buried under a scatter of copper-crisped leaves
where blackbirds peck.
A warm wave of light blows
through the branches of the tree.
Yellow pear plummets onto sanded
soil, splits: spilling juice
which jams on damson peel.
Butterfly sips sap suspended
on wavering wings
extracting elixir through arced proboscis.
Field mouse darts, big eared
searching for spilt seed.
Vine shines, lime green as the
Sun streaks through filmy leaves.
White-chested magpie flicks its tail
and picks at the litter left in gutters as
sunlight falls, peachy-red across church walls.
Foxgloves stand pennant, dry
as rattles spraying seed, sowing
Spring into the soft, crumbling soil
nature heads home for winter.