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

Autumnal Leaves

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In the trees’
Brown shedding,
Loosened in November’s
Murk
And grey clouded
Movement
Northerly,
And with the lessening,
Light falling back
In earth’s tilt
Wintery,
Gusts come
To lick the leaves,
Scurry them
If they will heap
And hurry,
Or Drive the well wrapped,
Buttoned-up shoppers,
Bluster haired
And wind blithery,
To tread them
From browns to black,
If already
Moist paper,
Mulch layering
The sticky pavement walked.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015