The wind roars, shakes the trees’ black fists
till they release the leaves they clutch,
to skitter away, hopping and skating on puddles
like a toad army crossing sodden March fields.
In the headlong rush of the headlamps
flocks of leaves like tiny brown birds
scatter up on each side
or roll helplessly in our path, the unlucky ones
ground under our wheels like roadkill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
such a shame the beautiful leaves have to die but I know a lady that can capture them forever on canvas Jan....yes Jan can Ruthie: o)