Fallen Leaves - Diane Scantlebury

Gathering fallen leaves
Is as futile as trying to turn back the tide
With your finger tips,
They roll and gambol before you
Like tumbleweed,
Mocking and dancing in the wind,
Then to add insult
A wicked thorn pierces your glove,
Drawing blood and oaths
That would make the devil blush,
But you will have the last laugh
When you toss them
Still protesting,
Into the flames of the bonfire.

Diane Scantlebury