Quiet beginnings,  you could say,
of the end of another year.
Just a small gang of colours
getting together under a tree  discussing
the weather,  kicking about;  arguing
whether or not to make a dash for it,
get the summer over with:
discreet wind- whisperings  overhead,
about how time flies. Have you noticed
the way there is such deep concentration in the sky?
Late summer blue is, in mood, impenetrable,
pretends what is the come- soon.
Mind you, on balance,  there is the seasonal bravado
of the woods;  trees swirling around in their
bronze cloaks,  demanding the
‘Yes Ma’am’ of curtsying, curling, yellow
leaves  cheekily bed- bouncing on their boughs,
then tumbling head over heels on to the grass below.
‘ Look at me’, shout a myriad of colours;
pretentious,  preening,  smoothing over
the bare facts of the branches
in late October. Later, though not much,
November will be in and the leaves will be in for it;
they will have to go.
On the topmost branch  of the topmost tree,
quite eighty feet tall, you can hear and see
one lone and lovely leaf  still singing
though it may be solo,  about how the
others have swept off without her.
She has no wish to join them.
The burden of her song?
Every other leaf can dance
to Autumn’s tune,  but not she.
‘Endings are for others’
she proudly cries
‘but not for me’ me.
Sister Mary Stephen O.S.B
Minster Abbey
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