Autumn

Autumn of my days,

Sun through smeared glass,

The way light shimmies

On kettle and bench

And then, away.

A spider-light that

Holds but never stays,

Folds and flattens

And creeps upon the grass.

I follow slyly,

The shaded spinney,

Along a shed,

Past piles of wood.

For every thread of

Light that undulates,

Another is dead,

Leaving a darkening

Plane beneath - 

Most like my thoughts,

Instead.