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Mould long beneath winter's cold white cloak
stirs in the breezes of spring, its thaw,
bugs develop in the sudden warmth, 
leaves heave in relief, some made into a pictures
collaged to a stone or gathered tight together
making strange new sculptures of random shape, 
as the march winds tear them from their resting place
they take to flight, as if to live a second life.
Now faded, dressed in browns and murky greens,
caught up, they cartwheel down the paths we tread,
beside us as if to compete, spinning like wheels
rolling to nowhere particular, always on the move
joining dust devils in corners or creating vortices
resembling hurricanes, travelling in spirals across
grassy parks, ever increasing in number as they
snatch up new members of their mysterious clan
faster than a witches spell, making such
beautiful shapes like urns.

The remains of autumn's dreams, dashed,
yet dancing to their final doom, as youth dances
its latest jive, thinking life goes on forever, forever
being a split second in the history of the universe;
human beings created and recreated in never ending
cycles of development, while thinking time stands
still for them, in the now of excitement, gaily
abandoned to their dark destiny beneath the flying leaves, 
where they join their forgotten books of history
in the pages of their autobiography, completed. 

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
In Richmond Park in London, I once stood with my friend Myrth, from boarding school in 1951-4; this was 1964 or so, and what passed us by among the oaks and heaps of leaves, was a dust devil, of leaves, it was a beautiful shape, and changed slightly as it snatched up the leaves from the ground, I was totally fascinated by it, this is what I have woven into a life history, of man and leaf. I did take a photo but that is somewhere(!!!!!!!) on a slide, so.....! I took something from the net, but it wasn't like what I saw, there seemed to be none that were.Ann.
Editing stage: 


I like your style and clarity while moving the allegory along as the poem unfolds.

Best regards,


My mind's writing cheques my body can't cash.

Josephus, I thank you for visiting m poem, and for enjoying it too,
it is my style, it may be a little old fashioned, but I expect I am,
not being so young, and influenced by poets of the past.

Yours Ann of Norway.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

The metaphor of leaves and days is subtle and thus very effective. As is the one between the whirlwind and life's uncertainty. One of these days I might get to where I can use metaphors this well............stan

A vision of the Earthly form of Autumn touching your eyes.
That it moved your hand and mind to write this was lovely.
Yes sometimes these things are there even if only for a split second,
that you can see and write about them is great, Loved It..
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

Yes those moments, when one so wishes one could capture them, sometimes one does, like the little toddler who, on the DFDS boat to Denmark, ran onto the dance patch, and tried to step on the moving discotech light rings, I did catch her, she took a run, and jumped on them to find they had moved somewhere else.

Thank you stan, you compliment me. I suppose all my adult life I have been intensely aware of details creating metaphors in my mind, entertaining myself, where things are mundane too.

Come spin with me, Love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment
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