Re-arrange
This tree is whispering of Autumn
as the leaves in copper colour
rattle hoarsely in the breeze
and where I pick my blackberries
the bramble unpicks me. Brittle
grass and withered thistle bristle
with a hoary host of seed
and sultry flies and butterflies
visit fading fleabane
on the offchance of a feed,
..and now I see with Autumn's eyes
the closing down of green
and hear the cough of winter
from where the stubble lies
and gold has been,
but think no ill of coming chill
for change is only change
for winter works to make
not end of things, but rather re-arrange.