The Fallen

The Fallen

The sky is musclebound with clouds.
Sumptuous again, as only autumn allows.
The land leans into another character.

There is no suture – no knowing where
one begins and the other ends.
But fallen trees rest differently now.

Those things that move, move differently.
Light can no longer quite dislodge
Sacred moulders between waiting slimes.

Autumn is climbing trees.

We call this dilapidation ‘heaven’
and watch awe fade in a new gloom:
secret-bound; sky-quag, and to the
last of us, still mythic with loam.

(C) N J Green