A wind blows in the West

Autumn clothes the woodland
in my head pictures of mirror lakes
yellows golds russets
a grown man plays childhood
gathers conkers, shells and gazes
fingers their brown sheen

with the falling leaves are scattered
all my withered tomorrows
bullies blow through the streets
thieves preached entitlement
light dies in the West
winter is coming

I water and prune
hope for a harvest
dance to my false Gods
but in my ageing
I fear Spring
will be barren