Falling leaves released from life
tumble through the air,
and they had been so beautiful in their dying hours.
Gorgeous ornaments displaying in the sun,
showing off their colours, dressing up the hillsides for a gala show;
a set designers' whim beyond price to stage;
a super panorama for summer's final fling.
Then came the end, so suddenly;
a curtain falling to the ground and
now we see a darkened world -
bones of trees and cold winds blow and
death is under foot.

The leaves, heaped high,
will turn to slime and fill the air with their decay.

I, like them, have my hour.
I would that they had never fallen;
that what they hid I never saw.