New pictures are drawn on hillside and in hedgerow; the leaves
now start to drop away.

Trees emerge naked
– shy, hesitant, proud, unafraid, with dignity –
sculpt riots against steely skies.

Finely etched tracery of birch; yellow clouds of leaves
flutter, discarded, on winds grown icy.

Brown-cloaked oaks, stubbornly clinging to summer
angular knees and elbows showing through threadbare fabric.

Sombre sycamores statuesque on the skyline,
Leaves already shed, yet fuzzy with progeny:
Seeds in clusters wait the November storms.

Needles of larch whisper away on water
Lie silent and still on forest paths.

When leaves fall
Tiny buds of spring curl dormant in leaf axils, and wait.