The Last Pumpkin

The whistling wind blew through the trees,
picking up pace and disturbing the leaves.

The sky clouding over, the light turning to dark,
lanterns flickering with a fiery spark.

Rustling leaves, orange and brown,
spiralling and spinning as they float down.

The night grew darker, the glowing moon full,
what once was all bright was now misty and dull.

Alone in the field, the last pumpkin stood,
with its blood orange skin lathered in mud.

The others had gone, no longer in sight,
Ready to be carved for Halloween night.