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