Autumn Song
Hidden campfires
burn buried mouse bones,
their sooty ghosts
flavouring tattered leaves.
The trees that don't turn,
stay hung on a scaffold
drab and dreaming.
Green ribbons hang
from pall-bearing branches.
In the morning, bat wings rattle,
the light blinds them
but they will not sleep.
Shoes crunch,
and the earth hugs its litter,
pulls it under
as a bed
for the recently seen.
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