Early autumn is gone,
dried leaves scattered,
marigolds dead from frost,
yet, Sun sparkles ochre colours,
pulses from behind grey clouds,
at night, waxing Moon lingers low,
two matches striking,
begging sparks of happiness
from cold bones who mourn
that what has been departs.
A quadrille (a 44-word poem) for dVerse Poets Pub using the word ‘early’.