Autumn Scent

With reluctant light
The wet earth
Breathes at last,
Breaks its dry fast
And puts
The eager tendril
Of must and spore rot,
Conveyed in shadow-damp,
To the dismantlement.
For what falls –
The withered leaf,
The stem, no longer turgid,
The petals browning,
– Mould will impregnate
And make an earthly scent
In season rich lament
And sad fermentation
Of soil and soul bound things
Untethered and unfettered
In their sinking sleep
And matters cool release
From forms previous.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Fruiting Bodies


Fruiting bodies
Like fleshy fingers
Examining the other world,
Of air and light.

And beneath
In the thready net,
Mycelium reach
Through the body

Of the earth
Drawing nutrient
From the discarded clothes
Of everything

Let loose
And shed.
The raw components
Once more

In transition
Of beneficence

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Primordial Stream


We set off up the stream,
Beginning in sunlit glade
And shimmer of water,
Licking each golden stone.

A pair of wagtails flit bold
In their territorial patch.
The banks are meadow flanked
But soon rise to steepness.

Beech and oak find purchase,
Dappling and putting much to shadow.
A luscious gloom settles, heavy
Breath of deepest, dimmest forest.

The stream becomes primordial,
Carves bowls in stone, cups to which
Birds might sip and swallow swirls and falls
As channels form slowly deeper.

Moist darkness crouches in
Underhang and ferns as endless
Kingly crowns sprout in revelations
Upon the earthy tiers, and foxgloves

As colour pronged diviners speak
To purple heavens reaches.
Trees too die. And some span the crevice,
Long ago fallen and half rotted soft

With moisture’s seeping ingress,
Wearing a jewellery of mysterious
Polyp, their woody hearts absorbed,
Transformed to plate-like fungus.

A coat of moss clings to every
Surface: beard of the forest
Spirit, wizening to bark and stone
Alike, a mat of tendril and twisted

Whiskering leaf, bog wet and reservoir
To humid air’s closeness. And gnats,
Fast in an escaped sun beam, find their
Golden scribbling above a still pool

And with their swift speed mark the
Quantum stillness of the hollow in the
World where time flows only as the stream,
In gurgle’s timeless ever movement down.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.