autumn

Autumn Fisherman

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

True, this life is not perfect.

There are problems and difficulties

In the body,

In relationships,

In the wider world,

Spiralling into

Apparent madness.

–

But as I sit here

On a train

Watching the countryside streaming

Under a overcast Scottish sky,

I spot a tan and autumn fisherman

Wading in peat-brown fury,

His line arcing for trout or salmon

Or just the chill water, pulling,

And I am brought to the wonder

Of a grey morning

In which our fleeting touch,

Half a moment shy of his hook,

Is sweet with life’s meaning,

And for a second

I feel

It was not a silvery fish,

Taught and tugging,

But I

Vibrating on the end of his line.

Who Is The Leaf?

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Leaves drawn of their vigour

Yellow in the chill light

And flutter down

With each stroke of the breeze.

–

Dying is a beautiful thing

When life’s sap is safe,

Eternal

In the trunk and the root,

–

Withdrawn from the world

Like an in-breath

Or tide, or season’s

Planetary oscillation.

–

Who grieves the leaf

Its turning or its loosening

On the branch,

Or its earthward mulch

–

Settling into new form?

No one grieves,

For the life in the leaf

Is not gone

–

But hides behind bark,

Gathers against the darkness

Of the shrinking wintery days,

And awaits the pull of the sun

–

And the soil’s warming

And the osmotic urge

To express itself again,

And again, and yet again.

Picture

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In the floor to ceiling window

Opens the picture:

The river

Glassy with the sky,

Smudged with autumn morning,

A pale blue glaze

In which mists cling

And spiral,

Calling back

The chill night

That stilled the dew drops

To a crust

And freed the tattered leaves

To mulch beneath the trees,

Sending out

A sweet and heady breath

Of spores

As life withdraws,

Releasing jealousies,

Indifferent now

To the russet matter

Discarded.

Photographer

~ distilledvoice ~ 4 Comments

In the moistened autumn air

Morning time is late,

Shuffling from the lengthening night

Through swathes of disintegrating leaves

Let loose the life that gripped

So urgent and productive

To branches now revealed.






Rooks craw in skeletal beech





Where only a smattering of bronze





Tenacious leaf, still reluctant





In the wind, cling jewel-like





And fluttering. And other birds





Pick at the glut of berries





With the needle of their song.










Somewhere in this,





Where the sky morphs





And reveals and holds





The whole landscape,





Walks the photographer,





Drinking in the all that he perceives,





Almost convulsing





With each perspective seen,





Almost pained by the utter beauty





Unfolding in fleeting perfections,





That even if time were his to own,





He could never hope to capture.






			

	


				
					


				
					


				
					


	

			
Bracken Brown
		

				

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Swathe of

Bracken brown

Entanglement

Stitched through

With Bramble.


A burr enmeshed,

Stalks

In camouflaged web

Lie limp,

Draped seasonal.


A winter tree,

Like a thistle head

Hooking

Loose threads

And dry tendril.


Ground-sink

Draws matter

In degraded death

To fall soil-ward

In depth autumnal.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

			

	


				
					


	

			
Perfection
		

				

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Perfection

In light’s revelation,


In the leaves’

Dying pyre,


In their fall

To the sodden ground


Or in the river’s

Swift transition.


Perfection

In the tree trunk,


In its conforming shape

Wound around


The order of being:

Beauty in naturalness


And spontaneities arrival

In art’s perfect work.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015


© image Ann Truesdale, 2015