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.