Today there are leaves

Today there are leaves
where before there were
none;
autumn approaches
like a hunting tiger;
in the velvet darkness
he stalks the sun
hiding ritually
under earth’s
horizon,
which slices the landscape
cleanly,
as the lurking blade
cuts the flesh
and asks for no forgiveness.
What price blood now?
The cold presages winter to come
black wind
coagulation
and death.
The tiger himself is
stalked
to extinction,
leaving
nothing.
The corpse of summer
swings back and forth
like the clock’s
bitter and ruthless
pendulum
at the bidding of the home-made
noose.
Colours leave the garden
monochrome
to curse the death of
spring.
It is a blighted land,
thrice-cursed and
alone.
Where is the moon,
death’s harbinger
and summoner of wolves?
The night is starless and
without Hope,
that lodestone of men.
A single throated
howl
pierces the silence
like an electric
cattle prod
or the death-throes
of a hunted
stag
left casually to
drown in
its own blood.
Only the trees remain.
And they are silent.