Mast Year

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Under the burdened apple tree,
Late rubies tumble and fall,
By a lagoon of calm stillness,
Mists envelope like a shawl,
Furry acrobats enjoy swollen kernels,
Hints of future ciders are drawn,
Strewn in over abundance,
Across the garden lawn.

In the wild hedgerows of the hither-land,
That brim so full of life,
Cutting the rolling farmland,
Into a quilt of patchwork delight,
A rustling and something stirs,
Beneath feathers of green and gold,
Gatherers of harvest’s splendour,
Indeed they are now so bold!

Across a field of razors,
Reigns silence and a naked air,
Shadowless and almost featureless,
The land laid barren and bare,
Encircled by giants in autumnal robes,
Arms spread wide yet hang so low,
Prickly baubles burst at the seams,
Expectant creatures wait below.

To the forest of scarlet umbrellas,
Where the air fills with spinning wings,
Cloven hooves patter and rummage,
Amongst shells trampled by antlered kings,
Balmy days of sharing with peers,
And a right to feast and store,
Mast fills the eyes with joyous tears,
Like the glorious years of yore.

Foxy Spirit

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October has arrived, and both city dwellers and country folk alike may have noticed a subtle increase in the number of foxes that roam at night. The reason? During the later part of the year, in what is known as the season of dispersion, kits leave the family den and “disperse”, to seek out their own territories and establish new lives.

To many people, the presence of foxes may be seen as something controversial. However, in traditional cultures, the fox possesses a spirit associated with wisdom, cunning and guidance.

Here in this poem are my observations of this spirit in action on our city streets:

Seen through broad windows above polished oak tables,
Dark blanket of evening adorns the city in sables,
Coy figures shimmer between lonely street lights,
Pen is released by the hypnotic sights

In the gloaming they observe without being seen,
Their invisible presence scanning the scene,
Sudden amber pearl-drop eyes pierce the yellowy light,
Slender red muzzle narrows to black nares and snowy white.

Again like sleight of hand they slip from sight,
Then re-emerge from the shadowy night,
Spirit of vulpes silently glides,
With totem wisdom it effortlessly guides.

New season signals freedom and new adventures when,
Silent troops disperse from the den,
Bushy tailed shaman casts magic! all are withdrawn!
Pen starts to scribble on page until dawn.

Morning Passion…

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An early morning excursion revealed far more than I had expected. After a gentle stroll along an oft-treaded short cut through a local park, a rather thick fog seemed to descend as I approached a wooded area, enveloping all within it’s mist.

I was fortunate enough to locate a nearby bench through the murkiness, and I resolved to sit and wait for the gloom to lift. So as the morning progressed, visibility began to rapidly improve, and I was treated to a true wonder of nature, igniting my thoughts as vividly as the grand display before my eyes. My heart was stolen in a moment of passion, and Autumn has now become, against all odds, the season of love!

I feel so fortunate that I was able to record in this poem a glimpse of what I had seen this morning through the eyes of my enamoured heart.

Enjoy…

Here in the woods there lays a carpet of soft golden down,
And trees beneath which repose beds of ambery brown,
That rustle underfoot and scatter in the breeze,
As watery sunlight glitters amongst the leafy seas.

Abundant fruits promise most mellow flavours,
Floral passions now replaced by pastel papers,
Sounds of crackling chestnuts mingle in the smoky air,
Prize Pumpkins soon for sale in the market square.

Early morning fog cloaks hidden treasures,
Then lifts to reveal a riot of fiery pleasures,
Nature’s last stand brings on it’s greatest shows,
The tinderbox is open! How it sparkles and glows!

Wispy mists battle a distant sun,
But neither can win for Winter’s Spectre has come,
The season resigns to be sentenced by Jack Frost,
So enjoy Autumn’s fragrance before it is lost!