Autumn leaves wind-borne
crisp as the golden sheaves
dervishes twirling monsoons
of an opus in wooded crops
falling from the tree's hatbox
filling nature's silent butler
leaving fingerprints of metaphors
with a shadow from the Commodore...
Amen
Find your next favourite story now
Login
Loved the story?
Show your appreciation by
tipping
the author!
Get Free access to these great features
- Create your own custom Profile
- Share your imaginative stories with the community
- Curate your own reading list and follow authors
- Enter exclusive competitions
- Chat with like minded people
- Tip your favourite authors