I see pictures of blossom and bluebells and unseasonable flurries; here it’s the leaves that float down from the sky.

Gold and ochre snowflakes dislodged by a breeze, cascading to ground, to wither then die.

Seizing the day between bouts of production, camera in hand, flat white to embrace,

I cast out to crunch through the crescendo of fall, to potter in parks, warm sun on my face.

 

With now only time to conjure bad rhyme, log on my blog, click, upload, share,

Eliminating waffle, reducing to scenes, a series of shots showing autumn was there,

In Canberra, Australia, the heart of a nation,

Where blooming decay offers passing elation.

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2 comments

  1. Poetry is not my thing, so can’t comment on the quality of your metre or rhyme. Photography, on the other hand … it is so hard to resist getting the camera out when the leaves turn and invade. It is the only way to salvage the mind when the yard becomes the last resting place of bags and bags and bags of golden leaves!

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