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Autumn Play
April 14, 2014
Autumn again. The season of dusk,
Of the colours of dusk. Those colours.
Fading to dust. I stand by the dock
And watch the Sun wink, leaving the Earth cooler.
Leaves chuckle darkly, and darker still
With the draining light. Trees nod, grinning
At their well-bred offspring and I steal
A glance at nothing. They're only puppets.
But, a puppet does what it's bid to do
So there must be a puppeteer here, but who?
Not the Sun, son or father, but a certain storyteller.
© Anonymous
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