Poems ✍️

He'd chosen wisely for the end.
A lazy Sunday afternoon
in late October, summer's close,
when all the coloured leaves,
adrift so briefly for a final glory,
had reached their Mother Earth.
He soon would be the straggler,
hung just above the sedge,
where, in a bare-armed sycamore
he'd found his secret womb
that, in his dreams was fed
by raging waters roaming through
the venules of a nursing mother's breast.
Framed by the violet of rhododendrum suns.