Autumn puddles

Autumn

The competition this month (closing date in November) is to write a poem about autumn,  avoiding the usual clichés.  So far I've come up with this,  which is far from competition standard,  but was a pleasant day dream for me this morning. 


My red-headed,  red-wellied grandchild
Kicks through the leaves stacked high under the trees,
Blown into drifts by the park warden.
Shrieking with delight as they fly
Up into the air,  her face,  her hair.
She screeches,  and runs,
Scrunching their brittle dryness under her feet
Towards puddles specially made for splashing.
She turns and giggles,  holds out her arms
Urging me to abandon my caution
My worries about the wet and rotting leaves
Dirt and hidden mess,
To live in the moment
To revel in the earthy smells,  the crisp sounds of autumn
To let go,  and be a child once more.



© Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

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