Washed out sunshine filtering
Through bare branches fingering the sky,
Touching a carpet of yellows and browns,
Gradually decaying into a rich black loam.
Gnawed acorns scattered around,
Accompanied by the occasional clatter
Of falling twigs as a pigeon alights
On a piece too rotten,
The ivy encrusted trunk seemingly held up
By the parasitical plant rather than itself.
But look more closely -
The season might be dying, but not the wood.
Note the budding hazel,
Whose catkins will brighten up the spring.
Or the hinting willow,
Whose furry pussies complement the catkins.
Or the shooting plantlings,
Who take advantage of the extra light.
The wood in autumn is a metaphor for us all.
Something great might be passing,
But look closer - the seeds of the
New are there to see.
It will be great again.
