Leaves
by Jamie Lamb
Leaves, a gathering of benevolent moths
The colour of precious metals, tarnished
And melancholy, whispering eulogies
To what was once the day.
Some, emboldened perhaps by the approach
Of Night and its eclipsing pinions, leap
With plaintive enterprise, flaring gold
And crimson in the dusk. And then . . .
They conclude, each with a last, ephemeral
Sigh, and on wings gilded by the months,
Flit through air heavy with the strains
Of their unheard ceremonials.
The colour of precious metals, tarnished
And melancholy, whispering eulogies
To what was once the day.
Some, emboldened perhaps by the approach
Of Night and its eclipsing pinions, leap
With plaintive enterprise, flaring gold
And crimson in the dusk. And then . . .
They conclude, each with a last, ephemeral
Sigh, and on wings gilded by the months,
Flit through air heavy with the strains
Of their unheard ceremonials.
Artwork by Laura F Jones.
©' The Treacle Well 2013