Orange leaves fall to the gound
The Crunch of footsteps, the only sound
My laptop computer cast to the floor
To my writer's block I admit defeat
The Sky Hangs low, but fluffy and white
Smothered with cream, ready to bite.
Cloaked in a wrap against autumn's chill
I sit in the lee of a tree with a will
To pen my first novel, a thrilling paperback
Armed with a coffee, in a green thermal mug
Bereft of a muse, I continue to chug
My brother, Ron, in a beige kangaroo suit
All original, fact, fiction and flights of fancy by me
