They have all heard the stories

They have all heard the stories

Those low-hanging leaves

Curling at the edges

Flirting with death

Burnished in russet and gold.

On a windless day

It is a gentle fall

Floating on a thermal

Crisping up

In the dry air

Unless it rains

Ashes to ashes and

Dust to dust.

Rebirthing,

Returning as an acorn

Or a floribunda

To be doted upon.

The chatter of hominids

Can be a drain on resources

Their energy and passion

A reminder of the seed change

There is no getting away

From gravity

It is unavoidable.

The only worry any of them have,

Those who cling on,

Is to get caught in the rain.

To be dragged underfoot

Trampled into mush

Pushed into the gutter

To clog a drain

And be flushed out

With all the other

Odds and sods,

To be mulched in a sewage plant

Cheek by jowl

With every other

Mixed up little

Waster.