Autumn falls across the land
And trees prepare for winter sleep
Casting off their summer clothes
In blaze of gold and reds so deep
They fall to the dew soaked ground
Finally at rest, a decaying heap

As a morning sun breaks above the hills
It shines across white cotton bathed vales
Which swirl and spin against the burn
Tries to hold its misty form, but fails
Revealing a land of green and blue
And fields of sheep and straw packed bales

In the light of the growing day
Wonders now for the world to see
Resting amongst the nooks and cracks
Dew crusted strings of mystery
And at its centre at rest, work done
Sits the artist, eight legs stretched out so daintily