the leaves of the trees

The leaves of the trees in the park
have fallen. The green of them is gone.
All that joyful spring, exuberant summer,
glowing autumn, is blown in scurried eddies,
caught against railings, trodden underfoot.
Discarded, grey-yellow orange-brown drifts,
crushed remnants of remembered sunlight.
There is a new silence, unfamiliar absence,
and there is no knowing the end of it.

Alice Christie
7 xii 13