I’m weary of October’s pastel blush
Of color, funeral brown and last-rites red,
I’m sickened by the graceless tourist hush
At mountains thick with dying and the dead.
It’s chilling where these ghouls find loveliness:
The life sucked out of petiole and vein,
The wraiths of greenness wailing their distress
In shrieks of wind, in somber sheets of rain.
They cannot let the season pale in peace,
The killer-frost attracts the crude and crass.
One only hopes the moment they too cease
Is choked with streams of autos spewing gas.
Or, no soft dirt but, in its mournful place,
A coffin lid of leaves falls on each face.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.