The Idle Of Autumn Poem by Leon Moon

In orange fields where troupes of hares rehearse
Singeing exotic the prosaic grass,
Eyes slew out the last breath of summer.
Oak veins curdle oiled sap to mirrors,
The season claims you as it's undertaker;
Bells drone behind paint beginning to chime
Blind alchemists huddle under gold sketches
Leaking whiskey for voluntary slaves;
Amongst this never-ending parade
Memories revive themselves in a squirrel's skull,
Unfostered clouds hurl down strings and caskets
For a leaf beginning it's last dream.

Several attitudes shake themselves off,
Moles ignite graves sickening soil with peaches,
Dust preaching reason waits only to start.
The Hatter's jaw rings itself open
And suicidal priests erect aviaries;
Wings apologise to the clapping wind
Setting auroras for a play of death
Capsizing eternal promises of life;
Duvets rolled dry rip and drip ash,
The peg-legged tiger re-tells his tale,
Creating a presence of past for his cage
Floating on the brine iris reservoir.

The doodles once motioned by lead of breath
Recite the experiments imposed on them
By winds contrived for living portraits.
The relinquished infant regains decay
For history's bucolic idealism;
The pirated Sun shadows cobbles
Shrivelled to dates and ticks for swollen hooves,
Vandals and tourists awe over gagged statues;
Marigold and rose-bush tanks charge themselves
Whilst the cuckoo assesses his mane,
Flat-head tempests peek through halcyon curtains.

Ruby puddles crystallise reflections,
Transparent embers freeze sweat and time
Stitching heckles on sewn pictures dissolving.
The connoisseur of sound groans in sight
As ripples expanding to red on white walls;
Tuvai's flick the fire of your nova
Onto sheets covering the crowd's applause,
Nuclear seeds blossom at the clown's gesture;
This bed where flowers reach for your touch,
Where every step is an interrogation
And even stairs are mere creations of focus,
The world echoes from your nucleus.

In orange fields where troupes of hares rehearse,
Singeing exotic the prosaic grass,
Eyes slew out the last breath of summer;
It seems I last forever before this fall
Revolving in the carousels of acme,
Somnolence immortalised as my death.