Autumnal Leaves

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In the trees’
Brown shedding,
Loosened in November’s
Murk
And grey clouded
Movement
Northerly,
And with the lessening,
Light falling back
In earth’s tilt
Wintery,
Gusts come
To lick the leaves,
Scurry them
If they will heap
And hurry,
Or Drive the well wrapped,
Buttoned-up shoppers,
Bluster haired
And wind blithery,
To tread them
From browns to black,
If already
Moist paper,
Mulch layering
The sticky pavement walked.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Once Bold

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As life
Is called to the root
And winter’s closet,
To sleep
In earthen cloak
And fold

All that was fine summery
And light green
Is made russet
And tinged gold
In withdrawing chromatography.
The once plump
Is made papery
And freckled
With age,
And transition
Is fading display
Of the bold
Brought
To its beautiful knees.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

September Spider

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Somehow they are flowers too,
Plump and central
To their strands
And gossamer petals.
Bodies worked at
And made in secret
Through the summer months
Among loam and beneath leaf,
Until the garden
Grown golden and fruitful,
Leaves crinkled
With the sum of age,
Boasts beasts
Materialised to the cradle
Between stems:
Their worldly wears
And accumulation manifest,
Their nets
Set to the bountiful breeze,
Their fingertips poised
For the flower forms of insects
Borne on sunshine
And wingbeats.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015