A blustery day of early Fall, a war ‘between wind and trees
The broganned breeze trumps boldly into strip the mottled leaves
Its icy fingers grab and pull with swirling, gusty fists
Coloured leaves before the storm of rain and sleeting mist.
As sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, the wind’s knife edge sweeps through
Confetti whirlwinds left behind as clouds obscure sky blue
The dull light carries with it, the sparkling hoarfrost veil
Which paints the forest silver as if clad in armoured mail.
Like diamonds in a jeweler’s case, each sunbeam sparkles bright
Icy surface mirroring each brief seen ray of light
The battered branches of the trees reach out as if to grasp
The wind that stole its coloured gems from spindly twigs firm clasp.
The war is never over, but the wind has won this time
Scattered leaves, like soldiers, now succumb to icy rime
Entombed beneath a coverlet of lacy wreaths of frost
The leaves have filled an earthy purse, to cover Winter’s cost.