Sunday, 13 September 2015

Autumn




 Now is the season of slow mists
that hang in hollows;
of silvered spiderwebs
strung from branch to branch
like tattered wedding veils;
A low golden sun
that flames the tips of leaves
on roadside bushes;
 and lengthens shadows
across naked fields

It is a time of foraging;
of fingers, red stained
as bursting berries hanging heavy
 on woodland brambles,
tumble through  painted hands into plastic pots;
to scent the kitchen with childhood memories,




4 comments:

  1. Alex, you really need to get your work published.

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    Replies

    1. Thank you... One day perhaps... I need to weave a few more words ... There are some rolling

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  3. Absolutely love this. Beautifully written and very evocative. Nice work.

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