I wandered lonely as a cloud....

...... NYAAAAARGGGH!

A THERMAL!

RUN! Oh bloody hell, I hate heights.

Yes folks, it's autumn. It makes me feel like writing a poem. Here goes...

The tree outside my window. (If you have an electric keyboard, switch it to bagpipe mode and play some chords. Read this poem aloud in a prim Scottish accent and pretend you're Ivor Cutler.)

(Actually, there was a quite interesting telly program on him

the other night.)

The tree outside my window is dropping leaves
onto a peugot 206 parked beneath

it is trying to clog up the air intakes
when the owner turns the engine on
little bits of leaf will blow at her and remind her
that she has parked beneath a tree.

The tree outside my window is glowing gold in the light of a rising sun
and dropping leaves onto a peugot 206 parked beneath

now it isn't

now it is again

now it isn't again

now it is again, and really brightly this time.

The tree over the road still has green leaves
the peugot is black
the sun is golden
the tree with the dropping leaves has mossy green bark
and greeny red crab apple type things.

Telephone wires have nested in it's upper branches, so that conversations may be had.