The Autumnal gold
Of a faraway sun
Attunes perfectly
With the leaf litter
Strewn loose
And curled tan
In brown banks
Of crisp exsanguination.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
gardening
Autumn Scent
Now
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
Autumn Begins
Autumn begins
In the leaves’ metamorphosis:
Flames’ tongue
Scorching the green retreat.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
It Rained In The Night
The air is moist
And humid heavy
But fresh
With new rain,
Still dampening down
Still weighing
Each leaf droopy,
Each bended stalk
Gravity bound.
Some flower heads
Are dew drunk
Lively, plush
And open eyed,
As perfect
As purity
In droplet spheres
Expressed
Upon the petals body.
But some are dashed
To autumnal fall:
The rose
Shaggy on its swollen hip,
Curling
And fading tears
Scattered in the falling.
It’s as if
The night could
Reach beyond
It’s dark boundary:
Wet finger tips
Invading the day
Or morning, at least:
Its species
Conveyed in fluid:
The slugs
The snails
Putting down
Their silver trails
For the sun’s
Open touch
And glitter
In awakening.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Voracious Hunters
Intent on the new leaf
They hunt
By gliding night,
Sensing every
Quivering first bud,
Every glimpse
Of a shoot
Emerging
From the earth’s
Protective coat.
And in slow,
Slow pounce
They are voracious
In their work
And in their appetite,
Stripping their prey
To the tattered
And skeletal
Ragged flags
Of a former glory.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In The End
Our paths
Seem so solid,
Yet with the seasons
Even the most meagre
Stone strewn soil
Grows vast
With fertile grasses,
And weeds
Rampantly colonising.
Our roads
Are temporarily cuts
In the swathes
Of verdant magic,
That will one day
Draw closed
To absorb our footprints
In the luscious gloom beneath,
As if the soil
Was never once
Touched or trodden
Or even impacted
By the swish
And speed
Of our passing by.
.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Wildflower
Amid the stalks’ voice
And rustling breeze,
And upon the gently swaying stage
A perfect purple plate
Delivered
So sweetly to the need
Of butterfly, moth
And bees:
A flower for all
On which to feed
And burrow deep
Within its pleasure.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Now Buddleia
Now buddleia’s
Lit fuses
Burn purple
For all
Denomination
Of kind bee
And for any
Which
Nectar’s flower
Is sweet and fragrant
Must
In the gathering need.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Beautiful Snail
Expressed in whorls
And soft tissue encased
And the fluid foot
In muscular reach,
Elegant as any
So long limbed
And herbivorous.
And what a beautiful
Tactile face
To sense
Moisture’s
Slick vehicle
And slide in silver grace:
The known world tasted
Through a moving salivation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Deadheading
Because
I’m tender close
And nurturing
Your space
– As if my lover’s touch
Could Encourage
Your flush
To come again
And yet again –
My smiles and kisses
Are returned to me
In flowers festooned
And summoning.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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