The Age Of Winter.

The falling Autumn leaves forcast that winter is nigh
warns us all of squalling winds and iminent snows.
Sqirrels frenziedly searching tops of trees up high,
stocking their nests to keep aways winter's woes.

At home, us mortals get our heating boilers checked,
our coal bunkers, filled to the brim with black gold.
Out come our heavy coats with tall collars, fur necked,
to keep the wearers so snug from the treacherous cold.

We the aged, dread the looming darkened gloom,
dangerous slippery paths, the pains of frozen feet.
Once again we crowd into just a single-heated room,
in our solitary miserable life of telly, sleep and eat.

Let us move back into the surrounding barren wood,
where thoughtless man chops down most of the trees.
So robbing our poor squirrel of his survival winter food,
which of us pause, hear its last whimpering starving plea?

Yes, the age of winter is looming, imposing yet again,
alas, poor sqirrel, how many winters have passed you by?
Can we hear their rumbling stomachs out there in the rain?
Are we going to let all Gods' creatures just curl up and die?