They are hoovering the village.

I can hear the distant roar,

As they walk the heavy hosepipe

Up and down the village floor.

They are sucking up the leaf drifts

From sycamore and oak,

The matted leaves are treacherous

After a Yorkshire soak.

They are clearing out the gutters,

Defoliating drains.

Autumn will be tidied up

Before the winter rains.

But in the windy woodlands

The leaves still curl and heap.

They lie in wait for winter snow

To blanket them in sleep.