There is some magic in the air,

Nights are clement and mornings, fair.

Hoodies and gilets are stowed,

Tees and cashmere are again remembered.

Fallen dead leaves rustle on the pavements,

Some yellow, shrivelled, and some dry and dark.

And the boughs are laden with buds above,

Readying to spring out as leaves for their turn and spark.

Neither the fallen leaves watch them with envy,

Nor are the new ones scared.

That one day they will meet the same fate,

When their time comes, and they must retire.

This cycle of life gets played every year,

At the edge of our curtilage, not very far.

Reminding us that someone dear will leave one day,

And someone unknown will come nearer.

*

Jay Jagdev | 5^th March 2024