Leafless

Tripping into dark
The collared doves
Bounce to roost
In my oh so friendly
Sycamore
Shortly to become
A hand
Of witches' fingers
Reaching for the red eyed sunset.

Along the lane
The roosting rooks
Top the great beech stand
Soon to display
Their spindly village
In the sky.

The chill calls
The leaves to ground
And leaves me also
Leafless.

JL Oct 29. 17:20