I listened to the sound of silence,
a crisp resonation of nothing but the beat of life-
reverberating beneath skin and bone.
It willed for something phenomenal,
Some chorus of partridge in the undergrowth,
perhaps a movement in the earth beneath my feet.
But all that came was a whisper,
certainty that green turns to gold;
gold to tarnished brown,
leading once more to an explosion of fern.
Laying on the dampness of last nights rain,
the season evolved in a heartbeat.
For all the pirouetting of my autumn,
winter is still an age away.