Poem -

THE SEASON OF THE GIFT OF THE OLD TO THE NEW

A pples of many hues, some having given up, lost their grip, fallen to the ground.
U nder layers of leaves sculpted by the wind into a sort of burial mound 
T rees turning into transient autumnal beacons back-lit by the setting sun.
U p in the denuding branches birds' nests and candyfloss mistletoe have been spun.
M ists that linger long into the day, clear then return in a crepuscular gloom.
​​N ature starts its passage into hibernation like it's going back to the womb.

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