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,
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.