Amber mist sweeps the woods and treetops burst like fireworks red, orange, yellow and green - against the silhouetted Trossachs, Leaves plucked from branches - A leg and a wing, to see the king, Fall under Wellington boots, Into a cold casserole of dead summer. The hill is a graveyard. Thistle corpses are crispy baskets. Bramble bushes bow low, and autumn Shoots jets of freezing air, I feel them creep into my hair as I descend Into the valley. A swirling cloud hovers over the grass And a snapping twig halts A tap-dancing gull, it hops sideways Over a flattened mole hill. I pause in the shadow of a goal post, While the ghost of summer wraps around my neck Like a feather boa.