My memory was wiped away by my first stroke at the age of thirty, but over the years, little snippets have emerged from dormant and damaged braincells. I still cannot remember my schooldays or the friends from my youth, but word-by-word, line-by-line I have reconstructed the poem I learned in my teens, or at least, the first half a dozen verses. 


Four years ago, I started to write poetry. I have a favourite, but I couldn't recite it, or any other of my work as they seem to pay but a fleeting visit in my mind, yet that poem, The Highway Man by Alfred Noyes is here to stay. Even two more strokes haven't taken it away!

This poem is called Russet Leaves and is one in my Poetry Compilation available from Amazon.

Russet Leaves 

©2013 Philip Catshill

When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown,
Though autumn chilled my reddened cheek
And cold my fingers numbed,
I took my Granddad's homemade rake
And set about the chore.
Granddad watched from a rocking chair
And when the job was done,
He said, "Let's not burn them yet a while,
For the critters will make a home."


When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown
With tears of mourning on his cheek
To his grief succumbed.
My father bought a stiff wire rake.
And set about the chore.
No one watched from the rocking chair
But when the job was done
I said, "Don't bag them up yet a while,
For the critters will need a home."

When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown
From the havoc beetles reek
They to death succumbed.
The bark began to peel and flake
Tree fellers had the chore.
Alone I watched from rocking chair
And when the trees were gone
I left the leaves to lie a while
For the critters to use as home.

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