They keep falling.
Some still green, clinging.
Some drab and shrivelled, already dead, not merely dying.
Some, painted red, yellow, tan or oxblood,
Are spiralling and flying.
They keep travelling.
Some chase each other as they fall, dancing
In winds that take them far from their beginnings,
A last journey of delight and new-born wonder,
With wishes granted for those catching.
They keep drifting
Some dry and edge-curled are high-piling
Into mounds of brown with crimson or ochre peeping
When feet, finding the ground obscured
Simply plough through, crunching.
They keep rustling.
Sounds of life and summer faintly crying
Until rain spreads spores of decaying
And the sodden mass merges with mud
Or drains, sighing.
They keep wandering.
When all have fallen, a few, staying
True to some heroic myth of surviving,
Maintain lace skeletons to delight
Above all, and beneath all lying,
They keep dying.