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

Anyone finding.

Above all, and beneath all lying,

They keep dying.