Autumn builds a changeling.

The soft scattering of burnt flurries,
a bowling ball of umber sparks
that run out of the drying copse

I leave the disease of the city
for a sanctuary not made for me,
by stone built, with secreted skill

Unobserved, slow, with knowledge
this tower, this bell, I lie beneath and smell
the elders cutting leaves and flowers

For some spray, not meant for me,
but decorating another’s passing
at the brassy end, where they believe

After all, this is autumn, and
Summer has run dry in the mouth
of things to say of colour and beauty

Now, the stillness holds sway
in the trees, in the air
that comes to rest

A strange copper glow engulfs the city
as if stilled in mourning,
but never sad

More serene, and somehow
by miracle transition, softened in
that butter light that spreads

Wind rattling, walls distended
like beer guts on Goullburn Street
hills and strain and sweat

Then descent, release and retreat
into that glacial changeling church-
haven, russet, claiming my belief.