The night rain
Loads the morning foliage,
Hauls each stem down
With a sheen.
The damp leaves
Lick the air,
Exfoliating pungencies
And sap soaked humidity,
Hunkering in rich breath
Of the wood scent,
Releasing stomatal volatiles
And chlorophyll astringencies,
Tempered by the nectars
Of bedraggled flowers,
Lolling before the sunshine
Straightens them.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Birds
Wet wing above
The scrub and stick
Of winter shrub
And leafless tree
Surfing
The rush and gust
And invisible bluffs
Warping sky’s
Endless grey.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Clouds,
Gale grey
And hasty
Full of
Wind-thrift
And mischief,
Steal leaves
And flick
Them
Rotational
And tumbling,
Gimballed on gust
And inconsistency
Tremulous in the trees
Bare branch
And sway
And creak
And core wood
Straining in root-sap
Xylem tendons,
Dormant and slow
But rope strong,
Green strong
Foundation
To the earth’s
Sound clag
And sucking
Cohesive force
To hold the winter
Skeletal
And disrobed,
And canvas blank
For next year’s newness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Not more
Than rockfall,
It dwells hunkered
Beside the spate
And the wizened,
Moss bearded,
Lichen fleece trees,
Bent to authority
Prevailing.
Its stone walls
Sieve the moor wind
Of its cold fingering,
And heather herb scent
Sweet on its fidgeting tips
Ingress on drafts
Under the mischievous door.
The mist is low
And sight is brought close
As weather-fallen
Days and nights
Resemble the gloom
Blurring the edges of the world.
How can this not affect
The mind of the old man
Thoughtless before the stove
Burning low on enclosed
Vistas of wintertime?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
From the prevailing west
Cyclonic lows
Push
Wet faced
Across
The foot scuffed
Rough,
Browning upon
The boundary rock,
Greying the low sky
And darkening every
Thoughtful perspective
To a buffeted corner
Of the wind swept mind.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
A sieve
To strain gusts
Of leaf fall
And spore heady
Deluge
Strewn crisp
And thick
As winter snow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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
Miasma condenses
Heavy blue
In the brooding
Underbellies
As if the cauldron
Were full
At a point of boiling
And might only ease
In manifestation
Of tearful rain
And reservoir’s
Releasing cascade.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Clouds
So touched
By sunlight
And it’s setting
In the west
That they might
Harbour cherubs
In soft folds
And angels blushing orange
Upon the gilded edge.
In vapour robes
Of salmon pinks,
Moist in cirrus’s
Spiritual clothes
And cumulus draped
Upon their bodies
Like light
And sky blue complexions
To make their face
And eye depth
Flawless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Cooling sun
burns tungsten
on the clouds’ fine filament.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
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