Autumn # 4

Bringing with each fresh glance
new unions of the same rusted colours
conkers and maple seeds, spinning
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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