Towards

A semi senescent beech leaf flaps

cross the half mown round lawn

like an old fashioned flip clock

Steady warm wind impelling

Gently

Forcing

Fresh blood beads

Bleeds from hawthorn grazed greens

Plucking

silent summer feathers tumbling towards

The last months of the year

Only for them to snag

On spider spun filaments of september sun


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