Our feet fall where the leaves fall, a season’s growth shed without fanfare, soon forgot. And who remembers last year’s leaves, raked, composted or burned, mere sheaths of life discarded like our own lives, one day. Only morose acceptance of decay allows this annual admiration of colour, where minor arpeggios play
through lands in the thrall of winter
The crows are gathering, swooping with impunity. They joust amongst themselves, invirtuous caws signalling our entry into autumn when trumpets may blow some strange advent in the sky. They seem happy, as if Imperial Rome had fallen again, a feast to be had. Fast and feast are opposites – yet so nearly the same
She was sat
on the old porch, a piece
of me I’d left
behind
in some spring
long ago. I knew it
in an instant, as
soon as she looked up—
our minds dovetailing as if
nothing had happened
in those draining,
intervening years. A part
of me wanted
to leave,
to move on and deny
what my heart was insisting, but
the spark was still there,
some sweet, indefinable
thing.
She tapped
the space beside her and
I sat down
on the creaking pinewood. The air was
still,
a low September sun
buttering the track
in front of us
and the turning trees
all around us
and the pale skin
of her arms, her legs,
and that gentle,
dappled face.
“Do you remember
when we were spring?”
I nodded, watching
her lips break
into that dimpled smile. In
her eyes I saw again
the boats
and the blossom,
like promises, journeys
only taken in our minds
Ciscography 