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.