Fingerlings’ tips fissure and rust,

Their ageing grip grows weak,

Riots of russet flutter and streak

Earthbound, crumpling to dust.

Suspended in air, a sulphur must,

The bang of gunpowder and its reek,

Dyeing nightskies into Javan batik,

Swilled and rolled by November gust.

But she of blanching breath and bite

Births sunspots in redemptive sigh:

Imbued with scent of honey-sweet spice,

Fire-warmed corners in candlelight

And cinnamon dusting pumpkin pie,

A joyous shudder with every slice!