Last leaf

Last leaf falling from the twiggered arms
of wintered tree, riding soulful, senseless,
down to waiting ground; dried breath of
seasons, crinkled edge and colour dying,

so do we all, follow, in slow, descending
footsteps, toward the beckoning grave,
into the bosom of deathly night, where
the sun shines brighter in that blackness,

and shuddering forgetting takes hold, to
soothe the pain of relentless years, and
to whisper again, those songs we once
knew, and could sing,but had forgotten.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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