The Leaves are Leaving

The Leaves are leaving their branches,

Like the birds,

They are heading South,

And my breath in the morning,

Hangs in the air,

As soon as it is freed from my mouth,

November spawned a monster,

If Stephen can be believed,

But all I see are Summer's ghosts,

The green ghosts of leaves on the tree,

Summer mulches upon forest carpets,

Mulches down to decompose,

Buries Spring's promise in it's deep pockets of earth,
Whilst Autumns harvest froze,

Deep decomposition from greens to yellows,
While in Winters infancy,

Then yellow to amber and orange,

Then down, to the brown of debris,

Autumn is the last of the supper,
And maundy November; the Judas kiss,
Then December to February the Saturday,
Awaiting the coming bliss,

The resurrected bliss,

Of the March of seasons,
Seasons turn and betray each other,

In some subtle act of treason,
But in harmony, this October,
I right, with rhyme and reason,

I right, the tilted skewed renewed,

That seem at odds with each other,
As summer usurps springs youth,

And hands it to it's elder brother,

Autumn in turn surrenders,
To the frosty hand of another,
And Winter lays it down to die,
And lies that it never remembered,

With its crisp and whitened cover,

And winter betrays its self,

This sleep within the earth,
Life bursts forth, from death,

Spring bringing it's new birth.

Spring turns it's back on Winter,
And procedes without a care,
And hands over it's youth to summer,
To do whatever it dare,

But summer now, is a whisper,
A haunted memory,
And I don't see Novembers monster,
But the green ghosts,

In empty trees.

Fire Poem

This is my fire poem,
When it's cold outside,
Rainin' or snowin' ,
The thought that warms,
And keeps me goin',
Is an open hearth,
With a fire glowin',

Flickering flames lick,
Whilst hot chocolate is flowin',
And only if you strain your ear,
Can you hear the wind, a blowin'
Over the crackles and roar,
Of the fire growin',
And the chatter of my Mum,
As she's sat there sewin',

Cosy and warm,
Is my Fire Poem,
But draw in near,
For the second showing,

Wild and ravenous,
Is the forest fire,
Consuming all,
Like all consuming desire,
Inevitable, unstoppable,
Hotter and higher,
Like the tide of the sea,
but fiercer, and drier,

It cuts you off and surrounds,
Like some scalding barbed wire,
Like a hellfire preacher.
In priestly attire,
Won't quit catching,
Till it's you it acquires,
Roaring it leaps from branch to branch,
Like it is building a choir,

To sing it's catching, tagging song,
Tag, you're it,
Now Poof,
You're gone.

Wild and ravenous,
Is my Poem of fire,
But even wildfire,
Can be a purifier,

It cleans out the old,
As it blazes through town,
It might bring buildings
Crumbling down,
But go out into the street,
In 'Jama's or gown,
In a couple of months,
Listen for the sound,
Of the rebuilding,
Of what is coming round,

The ashes it gives,
From ashes to rise
The hopeful phoenix,
Takes to scraping the skies.
Newness can come,
From the fire that flies,
Through the town,
And now new buildings rise,


Fire can be dangerous,
Fire can be kind,
Fire is to be,
Respected, mind.

Fire is a predator,
Fire is a friend,
Fire is a curious,
And peculiar blend.

Fire will serve you well,
If you remember it is hot, like hell,

But my favourite fire,
Is when it is rainin' or snowin'
And inside my house,
There is a fire glowin'
And there the crumpets,
 And hot chocolate's flowin'

There you are, Naomi,
A few verses for showin'
This is the end,
Of my Fire poem.