The following poem was published in The Write Angle Magazine, please check out some of their work on Blogspot .
Sheets of amber mist sweep into the woods
and trees, burst like fireworks
red, orange, yellow and green –
flames against a charcoal sketch of the Trossach’s;
A jaggy cardboard silhouette cut out of a 1950’s film set.
Leaves peel from sodden branches and rock-
A leg and a wing, to see the king, and land beneath
The soles of my Wellington boots,
which mix the mulchy bracken, into the earth –
a cold casserole of dead summer.
The hill is a graveyard.
Thistle corpses are crispy baskets filled with fur, saluting.
Bramble bushes cower like woven nets clutching
Sleeping life. And autumn,
shoots freezing jets into the humid air,
before they rest in basins, waiting.
I feel them rise and creep into my hair as I descend
into the valley.
My feet kick up a swirling cloud that hovers
over grass. Snapping twigs rudely interrupt
a tap dancing gull,
it hops sideways over a flattened mole hill
which is waving a barbecue Hula Hoop flag.
The ghost of summer wraps around my neck like a feather boa.
© Kirsty Lear-Grant