Just as I believe that autumn's gone,
left bare branches dressed in shades of grey,
melted the glowing leaves to muddy slime,
stealing sunlight, shortening my day –
just  as I prepare to go to ground,
to tell myself to close my eyes,
accept the long dark cell
where I must make my home till spring –
I turn a corner on the narrow track and reach
the downward slope.
And here time’s slowed  it seems.
Still, in this one place,
slim beech trunks, green velvet covered,
scattered with gold and bronze, stand warm
against dark thickets in the forest.
And though the sky outside is grey
this tunnel, where the trees protect their own,
holds autumn’s final breath
before December's sterile chill comes down.