TURN

Barely into our stride,

the year and I become acquainted,

shake off the newness.

Shed leaves are frosted

as sugar ice on stale mince pies,

and crackle under foot .

Through callow saplings

and fallen branches, the crashing

echoes without reply.

Beneath our canopy

heedless long-tails twitter, weave the beeches

black-and-white with gossip.

Light hungry, I look back

and find you there, picking your own path

to brief convergence.

Precarious above,

the aerial deadwood waits on

January’s first strong blast.

iii.2010

many thanks to Sarah Treloar for the photo