Submitted by Shaun Clamp
They scuttled on the dusty bricks
rolling past the iron trees
in desiccated cartwheels
to lawns, bounding
after each other, squabbling like birds –
flitting off, whirled up
under a car chassis.
But the wind brought forth a storm,
into the morning
where they lay
with tar bruises trodden through
and sodden on the dusty bricks drying,
they lay in masses, unmoving
except the few that quivered
in fear of the street sweeper’s brush
and his swaying skoppie scythe.
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Painting: John Ruskin – Withered Oak Leaves