Window

Behind the slightly misted pane, I sit alone: outside a bared and boney limb of sycamore is splayed with branches split their flimsy leaves like floppy goldfish swim. As autumn's copper shards then slowly leach magenta tones, the fawn or paley blotched remnants are tossed when passing lorries screach. The seething swirl of leaves is slowly watched: each fingered form in sprawled and spiky pose regains a shape in fury's frenzied flight. Each leaf like hands with purple veins expose a spider web like twisting ammonite.