autumn

Callum Featherstone

A Cascade of Yellows

A cascade of yellows
came to follow
me today.
From
the
out
side
of a chest-
nut tree cover-
ing it’s bay. Although
it went unnoticed by
a multitude of folk.
The way it chimed
profusely I could
swear it to me
spoke;

“Here
my fronds offer
our platitudes in the
inked half of the year.
In the blondness is our
gratitude before they
sink unto the rear.
You will find
within
the


fall


that you’ve made a fallen friend.

And green beginnings
change just like flaxen leaves.

Yet do return
aft gloomy season’s end.”


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Autumntime

Greens have gone,
From foggy view,
Days are dust,
In darkened hue,
Hours vast light,
Now, dwindles, few.

Thronging sepia, scarlet, yellows,
Waylay, the walkway, steps unsettled,
Slipt strides skulk their creptly echoes.

Harvest comes to croon its yearly cast,
Dyeing embered leaves on weary paths.

Yet, the songs seem to taste,
Of cindered yore,
Like, a belly full of fire gone to war.

The ash in its haste,
Falls fret and sore,
Whilst the Tinder and the Kindling’s,
Flames burst fore.

And, I sit in burning meadows,
Neath black cloud,
Raindrops flit, a yearning sizzle,
Steams;

A shroud.

Covering our footprints with,
Falls, dusty, wet,
Entwined with blazing leaves,
Beckoned syne,
Taut mind — affixes hazy memories,
Reckoned, pined,
For joy’s while, betwixt mazes free,
.
From echoed;

Autumntime.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Do the colder months collude?

And, I wonder,

are the colder months colluding?

Would warring Winter, pause?

Could audacious Autumn, wait?

Or, does the vexed, brooding

and unruly thunder

shape the sordid

cause

of the lightning,

hale, snow and rain?

Why does the gourmand, wolfy-pack,

have to, spit,

growl, and, attack,

the Spring, and, the Summer?

Do they resent;

the clement, balmy days.

Or, just, yearn to take their place?

Mankind has reached it’s own;

November,

suffering unscrupulous mists; a fog of charging cheats,

compassion is a disillusioned ember, smothered and crushed

below;

fraught

autumnal

feet.

A stampeding fall persists,

clenched in the dying undergrowth,

of doomed and dark deceit.

So, do the colder months collude?

That remains, forever, to be

seen.

But, the human race to season, enroot, ended in; self-defeat.

Fallen;

from favour;

from grace;

gone

trees.

A final, lonely leaf of fortitude;

fell, and, lost, beyond the evergreen.

Callum Featherstone

The cost of living

As the final autumn leaves

Blanket the pavement beneath my feet

I’m reminded of tears of grief

Falling from hungry children’s cheeks.

In the guise of a vulture

Autumn austerity circles overhead

Eviscerates community and culture

Dining on poverty-stricken dead.

They call it a cost of living crisis

But when you take more than you’re giving

That’s a loss of giving crisis

And a sin there’s no forgiving.