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.
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