Leaves

Another leaf falls from the tree,

or perhaps from an old book.

A pressed oak leaf as marker

or the denoted page itself;

There is no certainty

of what is lost,

just the pain of loss itself.

Death is no beginning,

death comes as the end,

our memories are the rebounding

from the buffers at the end of the track.

The snick-snack of the scythe grows louder,

we hear it in our dreams,

in the gossip over coffee

and the beer we promise to raise

in someone else's honour

and relief that the reaper passed us by.

So the leaves fall

and blow in the autumn wind,

as the pages flutter

while our memory flicks through them.

And this is why,

we deny

and do not ask

about that damned bell.