As usual I still have that ‘waiting for summer to happen’ feeling, then the first sweet smells of damp decay hit me, and I can’t deny it anymore. Here’s a poem I wrote a long time ago:
Game Bird in Autumn
Watch the rocking-fool gait
Of cock-pheasant; his heart is proud.
Feathers of permanent burnish,
Stained by the essence of Autumn,
Aeons ago, with the sunset.
They are shooting again,
Out there, in the skeleton woods.
I do not want to bite the bullet.
At night I hear owls call out to darkness
Over bones creaking in hollows.
©2011 Pamela Turton