The sun stays low in the sky
Winding down towards the shortest day
Leaves of gold and brown carpet the path
Or cling desperately to branches
Awaiting their turn to pirouette
A final flourish in the dance of life
Our boots kick and crunch through them
A soft musty smell rises up
Like our favourite chair at Grandma's
We know that time is short
And the colour won't last long
So we turn our faces to the lowering sun
Thankful that we are here to see it
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