The trees begin to wilt and fade;

Another year is on the fall.

Though autumn can defy the odds,

The winter’s cold is bound to call.

The daytime’s relegated role

Is limited to minor parts;

Discarded leaves drift down to earth

In patterns of the purest arts.

In nights replete with cloudless chill,

We shiver at the crisp-cut moon;

The powdered snow beneath our ...

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It’s rare to stumble across this:

Land left without a manicure,

Raw nature, standing untended

Or, at least, unchanged for a while,

Allowed to spread its arms and breathe,

To relax, far from the treadmill.

Behind the padlock on the gate,

A run-down, flaking, disused shed

Is masked by brambles, overgrown;

A rusty post clasped half-way up

By suffocating, unscythed grass.

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