(F)All of Autumn

Autumn yawns before it sleeps

and winter slips its seed

between its parted wanton lips.

Frost crisps blades of grass

into needle carpets, sparkling

in the sun's encore. Oh yes, the sun

crowns it all with ruby-studded

gold and, spreading its fingers,

watercolours clouds with coral flush.

You can almost hear the SNAP! BITE!

of chill nipping our ankles

between jean cuffs and sockless

sneakers. The sky sheds colder

tears now and we raise umberellas,

painting a landscape of walking unlit

lamps. Fully ripe conkers and acorns,

potential fulfilled, offer themselves,

completed works of art. A rich tapestry

of the passing year. Winter calls;

can you hear it? Trees swish, and starched

leaves crackle; breezes crescendo

to wind; and some mornings, frost

silverleafs our landscape, preserving

for a little longer, the warm blood

of abundance, before the season

of rest. But most of all, the thrill

of ice-glittered leaves, the zing

of cool raindrops, and cleansing exhale

of oncoming winter wind,

whips you with leaf-whirlwind-

vigour into a frenzy of ecstatic

potential. What does all this mean?

What I mean is, do autumn’s tendrils

grasp for winter’s cold shoulder?

And flecks of fall’s warm whispers

temper it’s icy blade edge? What I mean

is—can transformation render itself

amorphous, amorous, seductive

like lava lamp hypnosis, sky's faltering

flush, shy before these earlier nights;

a stroke of a jewel hued leaf along flesh-

glimpse of winter’s cutting breath,

before it floats, regal, to rest

on tobacco-scented mulch, resting

by frilly flirting chanterelles. Vulnerable

to autumn’s throat, this shedding

slips through pertrichor to nourish

roots of new foundations. I'm compelled

to discard the cloak of what serves

no longer, and shiver, not naked,

just dripping with a harvest of potential;

shuddering exhilaration brims with

overripe plums—purple third eyes

oozing liquid gold, syrupy love-

juice oh so celestial, it tastes

of angels on summer parched

tongues. What I mean is

who wouldn’t want that sweet

release, then post ecstasy smoke

and then to begin again?

***

Thank you for spending a moment with my words. If you like the way I play with letters from the alphabet, I would be honoured to have you as my guest, on my profile, where you can read whatever takes your fancy.

Here’s a poem for now

Teresa Renton has a first-class degree in English Linguistics and Language Creativity. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Good Printed Things ‘Food Memories’ Poetry Anthology, Ink in Thirds, Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, and elsewhere. She has recently been a finalist in Women on Writing's Autumn '25 flash fiction competition.