a crack opened with a creak enough for all the light to flood over the brink, the ground to seek and then to drain—lost in the mud clouds closed with frowns aimed at the ground's hunger so they prepare and buckle down with low growls of thunder
each leaf stares at winter's unblinking eye til in disgust they self-immolate to protest her unthinking hate, her splintered cackle— discordant lines painted on the field's blades while each leaf silently endures the burning with faith's shield to abjure death and believe and hope in he who can raise the dead.
I am a bramble man
I am a bramble man full of thorns, made of sayings that sound true but do not stand the test of time's hard wearing. I am a bramble man serving a bramble king, a man of thorns, sitting on a throne built of careful corpses though less careful now. I am a bramble man yearning to be a tree with some blackberries for comfort but no deep shade to shelter the weary, and I run along the ground rather than reach for the heavens. I am a bramble man rebuking my thorny king to follow a tree who wore thorns.
A wall against the sun
the sky is baked blue and the clematis waves as it climbs the roof to burgle or to squat or to beautify—time will speak as he always does, as the year turns the sky clouds grey to cloudless steel impenetrable, a wall against the sun as the war starts again
Rustle to Worship
All of the trees clap their leaves—rustle to worship the lord of the wind, as he sighs and hope and breathes, as our hearts are twinned in hurtful gusts. Applause rings out as the wind rises, as the majestic duskwoods pledge their trust to the lord of tricks who works another surprise—another ending, another pledged troth witnessed. All of the trees raise their hands to the angels ascending; for the signs all speak as they must.
They fixed the clock today, hands now turning though his face hides behind a wall of fog he marks the aftershock, the season's change his chiming our drum, he shakes off his shawl to stand triumphant from the gloom.
oh great green friend did you scratch your head to make the flakes fall to carpet the ground in red? shall I rub your branches in the reek of coal tar? as you bleed on the earth writing Autumn's memoir
The light sat golden
The light sat golden, overlaid like a smudge of paint from the fingers of a grumpy child—bruising the clouds with clumsy touches that sear the mist and burn the spit from the sky. We watched as we walked, faces to the rain still soft from summer but falling with weight that wet the ground—and us to the skin, crinkly like the leaves will be when they choose to fall.
He sang sad songs
he staggered along the road hood up to hide his pumpkin face and pointed wizened fingers at trees all ablaze along his way he wept his heavy tears of tar and swept the leaves into heaps til he sat to wait for winter's blow her coup de grace--he sang sad songs of grim waiting he sang sad songs of season's fading
the woods burst into flame leaves shout with their dying breaths calling with pentecostal fire: Hosanna! The king comes! So they prepare to adorn him. the year turns and falls into its November end climaxing in a tongue of flame a beacon lit on every hillside Gondor calls for aid in every forest glade harken softly, for in winter's cold birth the king comes full of mirth
scattered leaves drifting in a bank of cloud. Autumn hopes like the sun's weeping: the rain wetter— though we are drier—and unsure if we got the raw end of the deal.
It’s time to learn how to die
leaves veined with gossamer thread like the papery back of nursing home hands turned like pages in worn out books stuffing Oxfam shelves and adding a hint of must to the air. I take the leaves and rake them into a pile fit for jumping, but they're wet—aren't we all? And Autumn's crisp gladness fades to damp. It's a cliché but someone is a squib. We roast squab pigeon on bonfire night to eat cinder toffee and popcorn around a fire burdened by wet leaves. And we look up to the stars, in a vain—a vein—a weather vane hope of forgetting the creeping cold inside our boots. Eventually we accept the inevitable. It's time my friends to learn how to die.
A golden shovel
I wondered what I could still hold for the master tends to take his portion from my bounty richly blessed I was but now there is less—less than there was. It is a cruel taking that leaves no basket-gift to endure through the winter such is wondering of survival in't. A snow-cursed forest holding an awful, angelic autumn. Apples eaten to the core and beyond, t'was a day of cold heat, of worried waiting that consumed my gardens and grew nought but weeds in eyes caught in the world's way of looking. But there was more that I ignored, baskets in the vines by the door; so there is no more fear in the reaping
mist draped across trees who slowly smoke—ozone brims leaves crinkle in heat
辰曦, Dennis Buchner, Chris Lawton, Jeremy Thomas, Matt Duncan, eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger, Chris Liu-Beers, Bernd Schulz, Alex Motoc, Nick Fewings, Nadine Redlich, Toa Heftiba, Will Tarpey, Callum Blacoe, Joshua Fuller, Johannes Plenio