Dead leaves hang shrivelled on sticks.
The bats on the trees,
And the sky is a cave roof,
Reflecting light not dark.
One by one these tiny beasts fall to their peril,
Where fun can be had.
Small children openly kick,
And shuffle through their funeral pyres.
Adults, during unseen hours do the same.
Autumn is a time for sleep.
We await the winter.
Where we rest,
When maggots creep from woodwork,
Then bloom in an array of colour and beauty.
The bats will return,
Only to die again.