Flowers flower,
Leaves leave;
I cannot behold the hours
a flower has to breathe;
but leaves linger longer,
until their time is done,
and whither then they go?
An island in the sun?
I really do not know.
I always seem to be
the last leaf clutching to the tree;
bemoaning the mother who will have forsaken me –
she forsook all my brothers and sisters, you see.
.
I await the next strong gust of wind
that will carry me away;
I really don’t want to go,
I know I shall not stay.
Leaves leave,
then come back,
won’t they ever learn?
.
New leaves turning over,
still over-looking a four-leaf clover.
.
Perhaps Autumn’s fall-guys,
set to drop, and again to rise,
almost sure to leave us wanting more
than a pair of old Levi’s.
Moving leaves
from place to place
brings a strange bemuséd look
to my face.
.
From tree to floor,
I can relate;
from floor to floor,
by means of a leaf blower…
well, it must be against some or other law.
.
Moving leaves
from place to place,
just brings a smile
to my bemuséd face.
“Thieves have stolen my leaves!”
exclaimed the tree.
“Every year, at this time,
the leave thieves are committing such crimes
as make me shudder to the core,
do they think I can just make more?”
I’ve been through the dessert like a tree with no leaves,
Not that that makes much sense sense.
or any;
but I can only work with
what is in my head…
and the things that inspire me.
.
At this time of the year,
the trees fall off of their leaves,
which leaves them somewhat barren,
naked as the day they were born.
Don’t scorn my talents,
for my creativity
it hangs in the balance,
and who knows
where the leaves travel to
when the wind blows?
A carpet of leaves,
with a russet and yellow pattern
that changes in the breeze,
and is added to from the trees around.
Leaves left untidily in heaps,
or seemingly strewn about
with gay abandon;
Nature is having a brief glimpse at regaining
its dominion –
and, now, it’s started raining.
When the leaves
fall from the trees
the trees remain;
but, what if
the trees fell down
and the leaves remained?
What if?
‘Gladys, there is a leaf on the lawn!’ Norman said, all forlorn.
‘Oh, wait till morning.’ said Gladys, ‘Come back to bed.’
But Norman was getting dressed,
With such speed that Gladys was impressed.
He put on his coat, his hat, and his clogs – he did it quite quietly not to awaken the dogs – and out he went into the dark
with his eyes unaccustomed to a leaf in his park.
And there he met Mark.
Mark was a man from the Leave It society,
a group of concerned arborealists,
with a certain notoriety.
‘I want you to leave leaves alone! Let them fall on your garden, give them chance to be grown.’
Norman was no man to be told what to do,
he modelled his lawn on the nicest in Kew,
and at this time of night,
what was this young fellow about,
it was Norman, enraged, who started to shout,
‘Get off of my land, yon leaf, and young man!
You wouldn’t get this disrespect in China or Japan,
where they grow things quite tidily,
and treat them with care,
I don’t expect you’re annoying anyone there!’
At that moment, along came a policeman, who sorted the fuss.
Then three in a row of the neighbourhood bus.
It was at this very moment that they all started to scream.
And, sweating, I awoke, from an unsettling dream.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Lawn, #LeaveItSociety, #Leaves, #Mark, #Norman, #poetry. #poem
Graeme Sandford 