Old Friends

An Old Friend

Mottley, spottily, speckly brown,

Golden and russet leaves tumbling down.

Burning and turning like flames in the hearth,

Burnished and bright as jewels, cover the path.

Streakily, sneakily, soft, with no sound,

Drifting on air currents, fall to the ground.

Yellow and mellow, like gold-tinted rain,

Season of fruitfulness, autumn again.

Kaleidoscope patterns it skilfully weaves:

Treasures untold in a handful of leaves.

I love the way the seasonal things come around each year like old friends visiting. I made my Christmas cake today - a tradition that pays tribute to my mum's wise advice to always make your cakes and puddings well in advance, preferably in October, to allow the wonderful flavours to mature for as long as possible before cutting into that first longed-for slice at Christmas. It's a tradition - another of those old friends - and her advice is still good after all these years.

With the cake safely in the oven I wondered what to do next and ventured outside into the garden to see how the annual leaf fall is doing. The creeper on the back wall is just beginning to turn all those glorious shades of red and orange and the pyrocanthus berries are still glowing orange too, at least those which the pigeon has allowed us to keep. No doubt he will finish them off before too long with his apparently insatiable appetite. As for the leaves, there's plenty to sweep up again. But that's all part of the passage of the seasons and something to look forward to (mostly).

I wrote the poem to celebrate some of these old friends and especially the delights of autumn. Maybe the leaves can stay on the path for today - they look so pretty...