Leaves

I wander aimlessly through that forest, the leaves turning red, orange, gold and yellow.
All the colours, there to see. But something whispers through the trees, a quiet voice.
What does that voice say? For I cannot hear it. I cannot hear its murmurings.
I walk on, softly treading over the leaves already fallen.
But there it is again, that mysterious voice. It drifts along the path.
It clings to the animals that scurry past me.
It mutters in my ear in a language I do not know. It is cold, increasingly so.
What is that voice? Who does it belong to?
Then it struck me. Then I realised who was speaking to me.

It was the leaves.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed