Autumn leaves.
Les feuilles mortes?
A wistful, musical, sultry jazz smokescreen
of chameleon leaves
bathing the rancid overhang of defeat 
of disgrace
in a soft, unforgiving late afternoon sun.

A blaze of colour against grey certainties of collapse
Falling, dancing, dressed up to go

without warmth
without exception
without goodbyes...
To be crushed underfoot, or carried away
by the good people at Sheffield City Council.

I guess it's high time I bought that overcoat.