Beneath the rusted oak she
pushes back her cloak
of hair, black as the shadows
underneath the tree’s limbs, reveals
green, watered eyes - sealed
as she gestures the end
of it all with a firm, brisk shake of her head.
Leaves fall under the weight
A rainfall of oranges, reds and he,
still as autumn’s breath – feels
yellow, old and lost
before her departure.
Leaves in his hair, in
his heart, in his ears, his mouth –
his senses clogged with the past.
In the middle of a mound
Stars fall into the abyss.
The heat of death, of lost thoughts - a lost
boy, arms spread yet
unable to leave the earth.
In autumn’s fragile light, the blight
of leaves, and Wendy’s straight back, smites
as she moves away in farewell.
The statue behind, lips pursed, hands cup
an acorn for a heart. Passers-by pay it
no heed - another familiar object
gathers moss in their busy dreams.
Wendy leaves - shards fall; a curtain call.
Everything must end, the knowledge, like autumn,
comes in cycles. First we forget, then we believe -
and throughout the months and days
and horrible moments, Wendy leaves.