Poetry

Autumn

by

Andrew Burke

Autumn is Bacchus and the bruised fruit
ripe as the dying sun
when Autumn ghosts are in the lanes
and bottle rockets scribble in the sky
the apple-names of autumn.

Autumn is dead flowers and empires in a heap
that children young in the apple-fire and fierce
shift and kick in their thick, caked layers
soft from the falling of rain and feet.

Autumn's voice is a damp god
who whispers the hush of puddles and cars,
assembles the puzzle-box of nerves,
and empires, in Autumn's mighty pulp