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That Old Devil Called Autumn


Carey Lenehan

A grey cat slides across a field of death, soft as a wraith with claws.
Watching squirrels in the road.
I want to wish them bon voyage but they left before me, journey’s end achieved in three bounds and a
rolling wheel.
Everywhere, crunch and clunk, nuts and leaves fall in unison with
echoes of wood cut and lain.

Drifting over all, the scent of smoke.

Sharp pine tar pricks raw nostrils and dew lacquers cold feet in pearl.
Under the steam of early sunlight, dull coated horses wander water wards in convoy, whiskers beaded,
ears expectant.
What dappled autumn awaits the hunted, the lost? What sunlit loveliness appeases the heart of the
Life scuttles underground and death sounds a triumphant roar
as Autumn murders summer.

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