Winterfylleth (October)

 

We die! We die!

scream the old men

of the trees,

as their grip slips

from skeletal fingers

holding them aloft.

 

They fall to earth

in a blaze of golden glory,

coming to rest

at the feet of

great oaks, sycamores,

birch and elms.

 

Rustling in their cardigans

of orange and amber

like dry skin

in crimplene.

 

Those they have left creak and groan -

Remembering.

 

Children hurling

denuded femur

and fibula -

deadfall wood -

high into canopies

of fire,

to dislodge

the skulls of

horse chestnut

and acorn

for their

playground games.

 

All the while

the old men whisper

We die! We die!

as their bodies rot

into mulch

and a heavy scent

of decay

arises from their

death beds.

 

Never has

the passing of ancients

been so glorious.