BERNARD PEARSON

Losing Track

In the fox-poked wood
where the season
takes breath
high rise fungi
ladder and breach
the underskirts of old
oaks standing their ground
in the compost of once-great estates

I run my finger along the
moss-wigged defeated walls
and hear the drover’s footfall
padding from the past

The whittled world
fades to nothing
Warm rain comes
and an old cantankerous wind
forces heads down
as they should be
in this gold and rubied court
before the monarchy of autumn

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