Chanson d'automne (Leaf It Out!)

Season of pests and fallow fruitlessness;
errands of utter bootlessness.

When I was young,
not the wrinkled old prune,
the desiccated hasbeen
who now stands naked before you
(sorry about that),
autumn was sweet
and toffeeapple toothsome.
Murmurations of starlings
lit up each sunset.
'twas a pleasant leisurely interlude
before the festive season.
Lazy leaves fell from the trees
in an unhurried procession,
like zombies walking over
the edge of a cliff.

Now I'm approaching
(albeit tentatively)
a kind of middleaged Victor Maturity,
like an unstable bottle
of hedgerow homebrew
(No, I must insist,
you try it first,
you see, beauty before age.
Ooh yes - a cheeky little vintage!)
and autumn walks out on spindly twig legs,
as frail as pink wafers
at the bottom of the biscuit barrel.
Another year crashes and burns,
goes up in bonfire smoke.
The clocks go back.
By God, I wish I could.
Contemplation - meditation
- self-condemnation - pain medication.
One man's life and his wasted endeavour.
If only I'd been goodlooking or clever.

A holy binbag blows aimlessly
in the howling towelwhipping wind
while workmen in the portakabins of the damned
smoke Rothmans and summon Yog-Sothoth.

B.R. 26/10/2015

A murmuration of starlings preparing to roost at Gretna. Picture by Walter Baxter.