The Turning

The tree by the gate is turning,

Last of the brood, green leaves

Now burning in the sun-

Brittle cast on bones

That grieve for the loss-

Brethren pause and dawdle 

And toss about at any stir,

Their veins dry as shale.

‘Leaf-litter’, I heard said,

Odd, that artefacts of life,

Should seem so stale, 

Confused with human junk,

Missing the point instead.

It’s the yearning, now pale,

Unredeemable, yet returning

To that venerable place

Where once it happily bled.