When
Autumn turned
There
are better things than the trees
when
the Autumn blows
October
leaves and November skies
alive
with the aerial dives
of
the annual Starlings
where
the monument looks to the West
and
the lighthouse closed
looks
depressed
with
its peeling paint and lines like fishermen's jumpers
as
the ocean confessed
to
a stony indifference that would shake
the
promenade down
and
smother the pavements with sand
grit
the likes of which you never saw
so
far inland
the
moon as red as a battery torch shining
through
a child's hand
there
are far better things than the tress
though
the hills surround us
the
cold blooded fingers of trees
and
the flocks of Starlings
are
nothing compared to the sound
the
gale on the ocean can make
when
the earth and her blue skin of sea turns around
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