The last of the falling leaves

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

...

Extract from sonnet 73 by by William Shakespeare (1609)

As I walked up Rue Caulaincourt on Sunday I marvelled at the pavement which was strewn with fallen leaves. These small green leaves have been clinging on much longer than most, but now it's time to let go. The last of the leaves are falling. Winter is coming. Sigh.

Red leaves in the Montmartre Cemetery.




Red leaves and a cat.

Orange leaves in Oxford.



Yellow leaves.

Yellow leaves and a crow.


Yellow leaves and some spikes.


A beautiful tree in Parc Monceau.


A carefully swept pile of yellow leaves in our street.

This morning when I passed this tree I noticed that somebody has been playing with those carefully swept up leaves. The work of a Parisian road sweeper is never done.