The Lonely Leaf

One winter out in the meadows there stood a lonely leaf,

all those who had ever loved her, had left her all alone in grief.

She was only bright and shining in the summer, only beautiful in the spring,

but now in the winter, nothing of great extravagance as she was just a lonely leaf.

Nobody was there with her now, not a cow, a goat, or a sheep,

not when the rain was pouring, and the rivers were running deep.

Not even a tree in the distance, they were murdered years before,

just a solemn lonely leaf, alone now even more.

People had come and gone, and she just watched it all,

taking everyone she called her friends; they were all gone by the fall.

Where trees and plants once flourished and creatures roamed around,

was now nothing but a wasteland, a plain of fallow ground.

Soon I will be gone too, as no-one cares for me, but for now I'm left to stand here,

a poor, lonely leaf.