Falling Leaves

The streets are awash with a carpet of brown
And yellow and gold as the leaves tumble down,
Helped by the winds that so frequently blow,
And through the trees' branches so rapidly flow,
Detaching the leaves with the force of their strength,
Making them fly along all the street's length.
They're whipped up in piles where they meet with a wall;
It's rare that they stay in the place where they fall.
If it rains they quite quickly turn glassy to tread,
Something pedestrians soon come to dread.
But soon they are gone, as the winter comes round,
And pavements with white can expect to be crowned.