Desolate land, decorated with fallen leaves.
Silence: broken only by the girl
– a giggling distraction –
amidst the burnt orange, auburn and fluorescent pink.
She scoops up a mass of leaves in her arms.
She knows they’re dead but they make her feel alive.
A gust of wind reclaims the autumn she has stolen.
The leaves whirl and whip and glide past her sorry eyes.
And again, she is alone amongst the fallen leaves.
by Annie Ridout