Wrinkles

The ground sighs 

a green stick fractures 

underfoot I look down 

at puddles of sky

where schools of 

shadow leaves 

swim up to meet

their falling kin 

riding gently down on

air that smells of stale

raindrops clinging 

on for dear life to 

my old umbrella 

with ribs that nip 

at stray strands of

grey smoothed down 

by a careless left hand 

while Adam counts

colourblind crows as 

that red crest twitters

heavily down on a 

branch scribbled in shades 

of green slowly folding

into a scrunched up 

memory of a random walk 

curling up for the night 

into a coarse wrinkle

in my wandering mind