June 9, 2016

Adrift by Ryan Stone

The last leaves are golden, 
most have already flown. Branches 
hang bare beneath ashen skies.
Not so different from when you climbed,
hand over slow hand, waging a war
inside your young mind. One leaf
breaks free, hangs on a moment,
before leaping into the maelstrom.
I imagine a short fall, 
sharp jerk and silence;
but it's only a leaf and spirals away,
no note to mark its passing.

Ryan Stone is a incognito poet from Melbourne, Australia.  He shares his home in the Dandenong Ranges with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd.  His poetry has recently appeared in Writers' Forum Magazine, Black Poppy Review, Napalm and Novocain, Poppy Road Review, The Houseboat and Pyrokinection. 


  1. This is a very interesting poem, comparing the leaf falling to that of a young child climbing the tree. We are reassured it's a short fall, but it's a bit of shock when the reader is led to believe it's a child; I was so relieved when you said it was a leaf. But also, you make the reader think the leaf falling is also tragic "no note to mark it's passing." Wonderful last line.

  2. Haunting and sad, Ryan. And beautiful.