Autumn

Hands tightly gnarled
around a giant broom;
a hook-nosed autumn witch
sweeps the day’s dust
towards a plummeting sun.

The giant tentacles of her broom
catch unruly ethereal strands,
severely scraping grey clouds
to a single point in the west.
A pink sigh creases the sky
in the aftermath.

Clouds absorb the moisture laden blue expanse:
like snug petals closing in
to shape a sovereign bud
they fold into each other’s density;
congesting the dying vision of a
man bleeding like the sun.

The sun:
a flaming ball that gives way
every evening to
frittering midnight velvet
twinkles.

Twinkles that sputter across the dark expanse
of our long winters:
adding a final sparkle to the wrinkled eyes
of our dying dreams.