Purple silvery bronze
Are the leaves upon the ground
Deeply golden are
The branches left behind
The sad willow looks down
At the leaves which once were hers
Green tufts peep through
A carpet I’m walking on
Sombre in its sleep
The willow does not weep
Fresh air, I can breathe
Wet sky, gives a heave
As it lets its delights fall to the ground.


© Grace Johnson 1990