I sit high above the path below,
warm by wall of glass.
Turn away from Friday shop,
from busy I do shy.
The others yet to cross the tills,
to reach this finish line.
Down below the wind it blows,
it dances and it swirls.
Unnoticed round the legs it plays,
of people passing by.
They wrap up well from biting cold,
though rushing for the time.
Children play in pile of leaves,
like children of the past.
Never taught this game to play,
when leafy pile tis found.
Laughing with a leafy rustle ,
such a pleasing sound.
The last of autumns golden leaves,
atop of bush of brown.
A faded mat of colours lies,
n’ covers all the ground.
Blackbird catches worms to eat,
it seems they are abound.
Squirrels in the trees they play,
jump from branch to branch.
Doing giant leaps of faith,
when fall it seems is prone.
Bouncing nests of years gone by,
perched on branches end.
And in these twigs and sticks was made,
by bird, twas once called home.
The young have long since been and gone.
And now from nest have flown.
A shoulder tapped,
it’s time to move,
my shoppers now to tend.
A § M