In autumn, as the leaves on the trees turn yellow, orange, brown,

They fall the way snowflakes do, dancing in the breeze.

They crunch underfoot, freshly toasted,

Or like cornflakes in a bowl,

Sharp, crisp and golden.


But when it rains, they turn moist,

And soggy,

As though the milk has gone in,

But left to sit for too long,

The crunch, gone.


Just a wet, sloppy mess,

Scattered across the pavement,

On a wet November day.

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