Windswirl

the weather, fighting itself

 can’t make its mind up and 

catches me out once again

I’m over-dressed 

in tepid sun,

a sudden gust and

the crisp reds golds

and browns spin 

around my boots like

a knee-deep chaos

of playground children

fluttering aimlessly,

these miscreants are

goaded on by the flapping

rattle of tree-born

branch stragglers

that chelp away 

above me in unison

enjoying my confusion

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/22