Footsteps in the Leaves

There's footsteps in the fallen leaves

That whisper through the trees,

But no one walks the path I see

When shadows start to creep.

The maples whisper secrets now,

As twilight dims the sky,

The old fence post leans to the ground,

Where shadows multiply.

The porch swing creaks without a breeze,

The gate latch softly clicks,

Around the barn, where no one breathes,

The darkness slowly shifts.

They say he worked these fields alone

For forty years and a day.

His weathered hands and weary bones

Now walk in unfamiliar ways.

Some say he never left at all,

When his time came to go.

He just faded like the leaves that fall,

While cold winds start to blow.

Is it just the wind that stirs

These patterns in the leaves?

Or something from another time

That autumn’s night perceives?

His pipe smoke drifts across the yard

On nights just like tonight.

His footprints in the frost grow hard,

But vanish in the light.

Sweet pipe smoke curls through evening air,

A hand, ice-cold and strong,

Grips tight your shoulder, holds you there,

Where you don't belong.

Then breath like frost against your ear,

As cold as winter’s snow.

“These autumn fields will claim their share,

Best leave what's mine alone.”

The farmhouse windows catch the moon

Like eyes that never sleep.

While unseen footsteps fade too soon

Into the shadows deep.

The porch swing creaks and sways,

Though no one’s sitting there,

Yet he's watching through the haze

With a cold, unblinking stare.

The old man’s chair still rocks at dusk,

His favorite spot to see.

The fields he tended turn to rust,

Each fall, eternally.

So pull your collar closer now,

And hurry through the yard—

Don’t let him find you here,

When darkness falls too hard.

Alan Simpson