A gun-metal sky hangs over
The lake, which is oil-black
And loud as it folds into itself
Again and again until it reaches
The shore and my boots.
Behind, town lights blink on
As eyes ready to shut.
Maple leaves, dead and grey,
Are picked up and scattered
As a child mindlessly throws stones.
I have been standing here for decades
But I have never seen it like this.
This place has never lived through a fall.
What season comes next?
By S.M.G. Dupel