The Retired Bloke

The Fall

The golden season emerges stealthily

Without warning and  growing intensity

Branches previously clothed in suits of green

Now in flamboyant reds and oranges they preen

This beauty is a treasure, a technicolour screen

Waves of gilded confetti flutter in the air

A finale of magic and movement beyond compare

A simply stunning swan song, nature calling

For all to witness the summer’s curtain call

With branches bare from the last leaf descending

Taking their bow at the end of the fall