Fallen leaves
Blown by Autumn’s breeze
Follow me
Into my residence.
There can be
No pretence
In these piling leaves
Of immortality.
But others will hear
The breeze
And see autumn leaves
Blowing near
In other years
When I am gone,
And as one
With leaves.
I have climbed the never ending stair
Leading nowhere.
And explored corridors with so many doors.
And, on opening them
Have found myself in the same place again.
I have savoured many a sweet perfume
In bedrooms.
But the scents all mingle and become one.
And soon are gone.
Yet still I walk another empty corridor
And, opening a door
Find myself where I was before.
With another pretty face.
And me slipping further from grace
There once was a young lady called Miss Fox
Who placed lots of ads in a phone box.
An elderly vicar named Glyn
Spoke of wickedness and sin
As he called Miss Fox from that telephone box …!
I met a young lady of a certain profession
Who said, “sir, do please show some discretion!”,
Her name is Miss Bess
And here is her address –
But no! I think I should show more discretion!
I listen dutifully as he speaks of forestry.
A soft breeze whispers in trees
And I am far away where wind plays
Through the forest and through me.
My thanks to Robbie Cheadle for interviewing me and reviewing my poetry collection, “Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death”. To read my interview and Robbie’s review of “Passing Through”, please visit https://writingtoberead.com/2025/09/17/treasuring-poetry-kevin-morris-shares-about-his-book-passing-through-some-thoughts-on-life-and-death-and-a-review-poetry-poetrycommunity-treasuringpoetry/
The wind is an invisible thing.
We see the waving trees
And leaves blown in the breeze.
I hear the wild wind
But him I do not see.
In the early morning
When all is still and quiet
My thoughts run riot.
Then, the silence takes me
To a place
Where no thought exists in me. ,
And I am free
To simply be
Walking through the graveyard in the pouring rain
I do not feel alone
Nor do I regret the wet
For I can feel the heavy rain
While those who sleep beneath the gravestones
Are company for me.
And these old churchyard trees
Thrive in the rain.
There once was a great lover of Latin
Who had a job as a professional assassin.
Whilst reading great Virgil
He became very ill.
That’s what comes of reading too much Latin!
K Morris - Poet 