Autumn # 4

Bringing with each fresh glance
new unions of the same rusted colours
conkers and maple seeds, spinning
helicopters;
the golden Autumn of my first year
here had returned
and with it leaves
that thinned
the rimless blue skies
crunching underfoot
Summer’s spilled sunshine:
I ran now, glad.

Had we remained as we were
stoned again in the park
marooned, us two
alone in the dark;
we watched the moon, a soft face
on the folding paper lake
our hands heavy and still on the tracks:
would the Autumn
be so inclined as Summer
was obliging?
To wet skin on cold sand
leaning in, leaning back.

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