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

Canvas

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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

Winter Welsh Cottage

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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