Stipped Bare

The oak tree had lost its imposing authority as its branches were stripped bare.  Autumn had shed it of its leaves, a skeleton shivering as it lay exposed.  It had fought hard, clinging onto the last, but it could not beat the encroaching inevitability of autumn’s wicked ways.  Now the frailty of its being was made apparent to the world, the branches quivering as the wind that only autumn knows wrapped its tendrils around each and every one.  They creaked and moaned as they screamed in an unheard agony carried away on the wind. 


Weather Beaten

He buttoned his coat against the bracing wind, forging onwards.  The wind kicked up fallen leaves that danced before him; taunting him, daring him to go on.  He ignored them as they pummelled into him, their fragile bodies disintegrating to dust.  Then came the rain, thrashing down hard onto every inch of him; his scalp soon beaten and bruised.  Each drop a bullet to the head, constant fire from the heavens.  Yet he was undeterred as he roamed, a deranged sneer he could not disguise across his weathered face.  The Heavens were no match for what Hell had in store.