The autumn clowns go dancing, spinning, dancing down the lane. Whirling, chasing, prancing, a hold on life they claim. The colours stun and sparkle they rebuff the darkling sky; they scintillate and mesmerise the entranced watching eye. Their pseudo life is catching: I want to dance and run in memory of a summer when life was full of fun.
The colours of the harlequin are dashed across their skins, yet the deathly whispering rustle says there’s little life within. Yet well they show their colours as long as they do run, but whispery dry is every voice, they dying call – not theirs by choice – the augury of what’s to come. But still they dance and run, run, run!
A merry minuet, pavane, between the needle pricks of rain they settle, stop, and dance again. A passing breeze and off they go; frenetic now as winter comes and darkness falls, and stiff and still they all will crawl to congregations heaped on high – but still, like all, they fade and die.
The Leaf was written on the near death of my mother at 95-years of age. It became the first of a trilogy entitled ‘Spring Leafs’ and The Leaf In Summer’. These followed the cyle of rebirth and beauty.
This seems an ideal compliment to my photograph ‘Gold & Dross’.