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Had Autumn incandesced, its leaves
would not have been more luminous –
with here a red at fever pitch
and more lutescent medleys, sulphur
to tangerine, than I, offhand, could count –
and there, like thickly strewn confetti,
the oaklings’ millions d’arlequin
abounded, brittle, crisp, and bronze.
The foliage in festive mood
had staged theatrical displays –
engaged chromatic spoil from
the setting sun – and breeze-embroiled
through woodland paths, the leaves
ran riot in a carnival
parade beneath the evergreens
which had, perforce, abjured an alien
and florid rout.
Each branch, a Salome asway,
discarded, unashamed, its veils
of gold – praeludium – a rite
before decay re-cycled all
its charms to mould.

 

From The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb.

 

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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