Golden brown,
Bright poppy red,
Sunset yellow,
Autumnal green,
Fall onto the ground.

Hurricanes of swirling colours,
Dance gracefully in the peering sunlight,
Twist and turn with the wild wind,
Spinning and spinning together,
Finally landing flat on the hardened ground.

Trees shake ferociously,
Until they are bare to the bark,
With all the flying colours all around themselves,
Prancing on the hardened air,
Without a single lark.

Children laugh and play,
Raking the beautiful colours,
Then jumping onto them as if they were bales of hay,
That were never well enough,
For everyone else around themselves.

A few golden browns,
All fallen bright poppy red,
Not so graceful sunset yellow,
Nor autumnal green,
Are left for the bare-tree season.