The air is rich with death and gold,
And webs of broken silk and dew.
The whispered flick of ancient storms
Are ebbing through the stubble straws.
Throughout the night the fungus spread,
Their fruiting bodies seeping spores,
And ripen new in curious forms
Amongst the foetid mulch of leaves.
And out of sight a rotting bird
Lies molding, feathers matted thick.
Its skull and beak like twisted shoots
Have burst from earth and reach for skies.
The writhing mass of Autumn wrings,
The gasping first and last of things.