Mellow sunrays steal through a golden shower
of autumn leaves,
and all beyond are rippled, russet reflections
of death’s last dance
drowning in a spectacular array of little lakes
that flood the woodland way.
Tall trees have forsaken their damsel dresses
as nakedness beckons sleep;
they no longer hold tight beneath dappled canopies,
too tired now to care.
This is an in-between time when autumn
slips slowly away
and crisp, beautiful, frosty mornings are only
A time maybe, for other kinds of
© Stella Armour 2019