Machiavelli

Autumn is a cold killer.

His scholar's countenance,
unblemished by pity,
confronts a weakened world
through the casements
in a fortress of rectitude.

Leaves,     in terror,
dither into gutters
to avoid the hooves of
the tyrant's
             procession.

Leaves
are slaughtered, frozen,
grotesque,          strewn
between houses:   the bones
of leaves,
           thin casualties,
displayed in piles
and on gateposts,
                  a message
for children, a warning
for travellers.

The window eyes do not turn
until the slaughter is done.
The Prince will not be moved
by murder,  nor by
the keening fingers of
bleeding trees.