Elegant autumn silhouettes hang around like little men
in bars, unsteady, anticipating the season’s departure.
They fall at any opportunity and the sun, always there,
secures the dapple-drunk-dancers into cool afternoon festival.
The harvests sleep; leaves have curled. The bruised past
flickers now through scratched, monochrome re-run.
Earth, still in motion; weary and ripped, shivers.
Dead spirits form low blankets of clouds –
they keep watch over the hollow creatures.
Spellbound, they, marveling new skin.
Eyes freshly gouged from wars stitched with ego-thread,
see the wandering babies collect fallen, colourless irises.
Miniature weapons of hate and fiction – undesirable gewgaws.
Then small distractions shatter tall visions like sudden,
burnt toffee and shadows ascend once more.
They fade fast into yesterday without hope.
And the hollow creatures, bloated with clichéd
placebo, expire like the little men’s smoke,
billowing skyward at the bar.

– Michelle Gaddes