I harvest the view of the corn gold sun Which hangs like ‘Salem’ heretics. The caw of Ravens devours silence, As willows weep over russet leaves Which bury the graves in spines of Technicolor. The dog collared pavement starer walks towards me, His legs twisted like stained glass lead Waving his willow cane at magpies, Whilst walking on the dead. He moves his only tooth around his tongue And with furrowed brow Asks me what my business is ‘Autumn I say, just watching the world pass by’ ‘THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY SO GET OUT’ was his curt reply. I enquired ‘Am I trespassing on God’ To which he beat me with his stick, Lashing at me like strangling vines I ran away and never returned, And the old man died during a sermon, But Autumn never left me.