It’s the tattered end of autumn, <br />when the beech tree’s yellow dress <br />has rusted <br />and a thick carpet <br />of mustard <br />lies rotting underfoot. <br /> <br />It’s the tattered end of autumn, <br />when the white bones of the birch <br />are exposed <br />and its last leaves <br />cling <br />like baby koalas. <br /> <br />It’s the tattered end of autumn <br />when single leaves <br />dance solos <br />and next door’s blower <br />disturbs <br />the stillness of mid afternoon. <br /> <br />It’s the tattered end of autumn <br />when bed beckons <br />and the moon is bright, <br />and you and I touch toes <br />tenderly <br />under the doona.<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-s-the-tattered-end-of-autumn/
