Poem: At Home in Autumn

Rid of sticky summer sweat and

Campfire smoke that aims for eyes.

Done with shorts and t-shirts.

Safe from sunburnt skin.

I belong amidst the gold leaf fall,

When one can don tweed coats and wool hats,

Cover ears from bitter air, hide joints from dull cold aches,

Knit closed the moth holes in wool jumpers.

Trees release the burden of their clothing.

Squash of shed leaves underfoot,

Promise builds in darkening soil.

Stingy conifers refused to donate.

Bird song dampened by a denser medium.

Squirrels pack away winters lunch.

Mist smears scenes as watercolour.

Stovetop returns to labour for broth.

Grit bins filled for ice ahead.

My rootedness here soon upheaved.

Poem: A Small Fellow’s Spring

Beneath the moss, in small confine,

Something stirs below the pines.

Enclosed by frost through winter’s curse,

Now back to life the creature bursts.

Sounds of spells have made him wake.

Allure of slumber hard to shake.

At last, he rocks from mossy bed,

And dons a cap to thaw his head.

To the doorstep of this earthen den,

He walks more slowly now than when

The squirrels – beasts – hid away their goods

And humans – titans – stocked up with wood.

Time for rest is over, one must eat.

He misses the berries, those fattening treats.

But nettle leaves and burdock shoots,

Are enough to fill his humble boots.

He scans for ‘shrooms in shaded nooks

Collecting food with patient look

He hums his tune, expects to hear

A neighbour’s voice to call from near.

But the paths are quiet, the woods are bare.

No neighbours pass, no kin are there.

A village bustling, now no more

How many lost? Five, six score?

From forest’s breath their lives depend

It’s bloom, their birth. Its fall, their end.

Bound to the magic, their fates entwined,

When the mana fades, so goes their kind.

This vital essence once ran deep,

In each hollow, through soil’s keep.

But now its feeling wanes, subsides.

His friends departed. No goodbyes.

Poem: Wildfires

We had paradise, but burnt it down.
Vivariums turned to coals around
Which we roast and toast our souls
to feel apart of nature's whole
Again. But we are invasive.
We leech Eden of its shielded casing.

We expose her, Mother Nature,
To our flames and saws and greater
greed than we can sustain
And as she bleeds, we share in pain.

And so from each small catastrophe
We can sense ourselves in atrophy.