Autumn Weeping

The weeping was silent, barely a whispered hush as I stood below them.  They flanked me on both sides, tall and strong and immovable.  Yet as strong as they stood, they wept.  First they blushed, crimson and gold blooming from the tendrils they reached skywards. Then as if weighted, as if their colours betrayed them, now standing ashamed as they burned in the low light of the searing sun, the tears of flames fell.  They glided, their movement as soft as a lullaby and came to rest on the cold concrete underfoot, a carpet below.


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