shugborough walk

thoughts in a forest

 

earthed

in a forest

of dead ferns

and mud

branches

drag

the sky

across

the moss-faced

wood

which

blankets

this ancient palace 

 

 

the dying bones

the dying bones of autumn

poke through 

a ribbed skeleton 

on the forest floor

winter is near

 as ferns enfold

the last of the sharp sunlight

and drag it beneath the leaf-strewn soil

to the waiting roots

below

it will be dark

soon