For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Autumn Garden

Nothing much happens.
Life's gone underground.
Absence of butterfly and bee.

On the pond — brimful of rain —
whirligig beetles ever decrease 
in ever-decreasing circles. 

One last water lily 
fails to open 
yet refuses to die.

Earthworm casts 
stipple the lawn 
like cairns — 

portals into a nether world.
Fungi are alien invaders.
Toadstool parasols wave

in the woody air.
Trees shrug and shiver off 
their leaves, paring back

to the bare bones of things. 
Each brittle leaf
drifts down, goes limp. 

The plum tree's bark —
ploughed and ridged
as a strip lynchet.

Leaf litter 
rustles with blackbirds — 
every bill a golden promise —

and a slanting sun 
slices a blue 
parabola of sky.

6 comments:

Ruth said...

Beautiful, Robert. The detritus of autumn is vivid in your poem, ending so liltingly and satisfyingly with that parabola of sky.

The Solitary Walker said...

I'm glad you like it, Ruth. It started out as a piece of prose last night, but ended up as a poem this morning.

Grizz………… said...

Solitary…

Yes, indeed—much improved. I knew there was a poem—and a good one!—lurking in the post's previous form.

(I attempted to send this comment earlier via my phone, but don't think it worked. If it did, just discard.)

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, Grizz! Your approval means a lot to me.

dritanje said...

This is lovely. Especially as I don't know what a strip lynchet is, and I don't want to be told, the sound and the imagining is most enjoyable.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, Dritanje!