Poetry (words)

The rest.

Autumn, when the blankets of green have left, when the perfumed blooms have faded to stained parchment that hang in stasis until the blade once again stems their slow demise.

It’s now that the air we breathe is visible and all landscapes bear their scars. The long sleep awaits yet the world becomes a noisy reminder of how we shelter in the shade of seasons.

How different life feels when early birdsong clings to sunrise. When the skittish wings of the butterfly capture but a moment of a life more fleeting than a change of heart in a diary.

Now the chimneys bring a leaden hue that will blend with bonfires and petrol fumes. The chop and burn retrospective of mistakes we continue to deny as we huddle in this time..for now..


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