Tuesday, November 03, 2015

Autumn's footprint

The mist of morning is real,
the darkly glass of reality.
Ghosts of history hide here
in the shadows of trees
and the moist curtain
that hangs between them.
The muffled silence
mantles this place;
where children play
when the sun burns
truth away
and reveals
in detail
unvirtuous reality.
Autumn treads its truth
upon the heavy laden grass
and whispers yesterdays,
beyond our reach,
aliens from the past -
soft footfalls
kicking the leaves. 

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