Autumnal joy floats on the wind: it blows
A woodwind section through the buzzing leaves,
And gently rattles red arpeggios
That harmonise with mournful semibreves
Of ageing branches creaking in the breeze.
The forest spirits collectively moan.
Without the crunch of thund’rous symphonies
The rain can ****** on a xylophone:
The surface of a hidden woodland pond
Where all the stepping stones are so arranged
As keys of limestone next to keys of slate.
And all around the silence is estranged
And till the snow of winter has to wait.
We wave our sticks at where the air has thinned
And call ourselves composers of the wind.