I rustle through crisp clusters of lost, crunching leaves

Which gather, bunched and rusting russet, in the thickets

And sniff the wafting, musty, fusty, rustic scents

Of fungal undergrowth amongst sparse, once-lush bushes.

Last, rash, brash leaflets stick to sycamore and ash

But soon shall slip their tenuous grips and hustle, fluttering

To forest’s floor to settle, nestled in moist mash

To match the close-lopped, coppiced brushwood’s patchwork carpet.

Thin, drifting drizzle misting in swift, whispering winds

Will filter, sifting through the mulch and mix it richly

To squash to slushy mush through which I’ll dash and splash

In childish haste to rush as foolish passions grasp me.

This lasts until stiff fingers of first, harsh hoar-frosts

Soft sprinkle glistening glitter on the shrinking litter,

Skins stripped to skeletons of gossamer and twig,

Which vanish, ghostlike in snow’s muffling kiss of winter.