I can’t believe that it’s been more than a month since I showed signs of life. I even let National Poetry Day (Thursday, 4th. October: theme “Change”) pass without comment or loosing off a “Loose Change” pun or two. True, I haven’t been especially productive on the poetry front, birthday tributes apart, though I shall finish with a poem written today. Before I do, I just wanted to let you know that on Wednesday, 14th. November at 7-30 pm at the Silk Heritage Centre (Whitaker Room, The Old Sunday School), I will be joining Mark Rawlins and Nick Degg in an evening of unrestrained and entertaining poetry (see Nick Degg’s Youtube “Regional Accent Syndrome” for a taste of things to come). £5/£4, includes refreshments, pay at the door.
Autumn has breezed in with its flurry of transient finery
of russets and scarlets and golds
and beneath the heavy ladened apple trees,
the wind has harvested a premature crop
of bruised treasure, a feast for mice and slugs.
And I think of how ideas, maturing slowly,
hang in mid-air, awaiting that nudge, gentle or brusque,
from tousled-haired, round cheeked cherub
– Pffft – and down they tumble,
coming to rest, causing scarcely a ripple, nearby:
wind felled, precious windfall,
something to value, to muse on or to discard.