Westerns Parks great practice ground.

An Autumn evening. Memories.

The ground awash with dying leaves,
as dismissive, sleepy, wearisome, trees,
cast them off to flutter down,
and die unwanted on winter's ground.

Cold and cheerless the autumn air,
offers nothing to help or care,
huddled together as if for cheer,
but spiteful winds divide and clear.

All the browns and ochre’s too,
nature's carpet there to view,
every single shade of green,
as nature's palette reigns supreme.

Twigs and branches strewn around,
magpies search and probe the ground,
foxes peek, search and inquire,
approach and stop as if to admire.

Cautiously taking a guarded stance,
ever fearful of man's violence,
the sky above cold and blue,
clouds mixed in a grey and white hue.

And then to man we next inquire,
as extra warmth he does require,
all wrapped up in jumpers new.
fearing colds and chills anew.

Then the autumn day is done,
giving way to nights kingdom,
a chilly cold and watery sky.
watches nature's foliage die.

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