Imprisoned, enmeshed, enchained the leaves tremble slow,
Across the ends of the trees lined along the pavement,
A strange coterie of thoughts and bodies,
Awaiting autumn to liberate life and soul.
Autumn sits in his ten foot cell,
His eyes half closed like the buddha awaiting emancipation,
A calm demeanour of the storm within
Grappling and drowning his very own existence.
November knocks at the sun’s pall,
Sobers it, dries up the rattling breeze,
Flames of willow the whips grow from the windows of the ventilator,
Like a forgotten stream of epiphany in a maze of embellishment.
The child of dawn shies past the gates,
Autumn beckons, “Come, sit”
Oh capricious fervour of yesteryear, when did you settle,
As an arrow off the bow he flies away.
At his heels the neatly combed young day,clang the bars with his stick,
The rods strike, of the prison, holding down the prisoner Autumn,
He sees around, away to the pale wall, destiny enshrined,
Codified, but unread unfolding with a blinding light.
How many hours passed ? He knows not as the doors gently open,
The evening in her gown of Evian muslin slips in,
Full and bright like the moon tonight, she sits beside,
And lo, he turns his eyes to see her disappear in the night.
The darkness touches Autumn, unending depth of pristine love,
He cannot see the night, but smells the purity in time’s prison and bars of years,
And wrapped in his aura of divinity, stands up,
November harkens to its liberator’s footsteps as he walks out of the cell.