The low autumn sun
blinding-white but bereft of gold
because the beech and sycamore stole it
to paint their leaves
before purging the dying
windswept sarcophagi of the season
everyone and everything
wants to be a king for a day
and all kings know kingdoms fall
crumble to decay
and history remembers in bronze
the colour of rotting leaves
atoms return to atoms
return to life elsewhere.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem about autumn.
I hope you enjoyed it, if so why not check some of my other work out.
Take It Easy
Photo from unsplash: Ilham Ramadhan