Marbly-sheened, grey sky, silhouetting the black, nondescript trees,
While the blurred, whirling shape lowers itself into the silent shadows;
Torrents of wind hurling flurries of leaf-drops around
Blinding the unwary watcher and burying him to the knees
In a madly rustling flock. The helicopter comes,
Rotors spinning, seemingly vacuuming the trees
Of further trainloads of second-hand leaves.
Leaves in the air, leaves on the ground,
Leaves poised for dropping into the air eddies;
Leaves poised for dropping, like so many
Fearless, first-time parachutists.
Clouds of leaves; spinning, flying, floating;
Serrated-edged saucers, dancing with Autumn.
The helicopter lands; an echo of light, escaping from the plastic, jigsaw fronds of the camouflage nets,
Highlights the green-skinned flyer.
A voice yells, feet clatter on the dry leaves
And the light is shut in, darkness floods out
And the helicopter recedes into the shadows.