In the full blossom of the evening

The whisper in the breeze and the dialect of a windswept cluster of leaves.
A thousand shades of green, yellow, amber, orange and brown,
As far as the eye can see.
The crunching sound, surrounded by the colour blossom as we navigate our feet taking steps amongst the littered ground.
As one slips, we laugh through muffled wooly gloves,
The bare faced cheek of it all,
Bashful in more ways than one.
Encompassed by the ****** of the sycamore tree.
Reveal yourself through the crooked branches,
We'll grow back before long,
And until then then - in the full blossom of the evening,
We'll act as if nothing's wrong.