Another poem I wrote in my head in bed last night. I feel inspired at the moment. I wonder why? Perhaps it's something to do with this season of 'mellow fruitfulness' - garnering the rich pickings of the heart. Though I'm not sure my heart is yet ripe enough. Are our hearts ever mature? I'm jumping the gun a little on November but, hey, I've always been rather impatient. It's a trait of those born under the Scorpio sign. Yes - my birthday is next month too.
Now it's begun: the slow slide towards winter.
Heating pipes cough and splutter into life.
Men recall heydays with a summer wife.
Logs burning in the grate crackle and splinter.
Stores full of Santas, but no queues are forming.
Shoppers fret about the financial crisis.
Shopkeepers worry how loaded the dice is.
Kitsch snow scenes out of synch with global warming.
In the woods, chestnut gatherers, mushroom pickers.
Lovers longing for one final tryst
Before the forest floor is damp with mist
And the earth dank as a harlot's knickers.
Wellingtons. Warm, woolly underclothes.
And on the briar one last, wanton rose.