7/28/2019 The Leaves of Hamlyn

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The leaves of Hamlyn

God, bored with scientific inquiry, tossed

the plans into streets we build

as prostrate towers of Babel - crisp leaves

dance secret tales bare trees understand.

The leaves lead us into another winter -

the golden dance turns to putrid carcass.

Trees scarecrow our fears as we build

fires to pass our souls through.

I buried my son yesterday

while the leaves

gathered like children at a concert,

pleased they are not the only fallen.

That night

wind pushed thoughts hard against the minds pane;

my childs voice sounded liked a leaf

scraping across the concrete footpath.

This morning I raked, burnt the leaves, watched

the smoke rise above the houses, felt

the ache in my left shoulder as if the arm

is a leaf preparing to depart.