Anthology From the Field., No.1: Autumn

A selection of three poems on the theme of Autumn

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

Welcome to my first poetry anthology,

Autumn is now upon us, and in the UK it is finally feeling like how Autumn should now that the last two weeks of unseasonable warm weather (hotter than some summer days) have passed. This collection of three poems are all on the theme of Autumn — specifically on trees — as the changes that trees experience in Autumn epitomise for me what Autumn is all about — a last flurry of warm beauty before the winter, with its scenes of cold dark desolation (apart from when it snows!), sets in.

The warmth that falls

Yellow, orange, red,
thus blooms the warmth when the temperature has fled.
Autumn: damp, cold, and perpetually wet,
but the leaves - mimicking fire with the colours they have set -
seem ignorant. 

Suddenly they fall - fall, fall,
draining their warmth as they
plummet to the cold, damp earth below.
The frost-baked ground receives them, 
engulfs them, 
whispers to them: 
"The cold has won." 

The cold may well have won -
and with the white snow falling, 
victory seems complete. 
But, as the wise old tree knows - 
only for a season. 

In good time, the warmth will return, 
and so too the leaves -
drawing sustenance from their fallen forefathers below.
And with each and every bud that bursts forth in verdant green
the forest erupts with praise proclaiming:

"The warmth has won!" 

What the acorn holds  

Inconspicuous, 
this little green seed may be,
but encased inside it is 
might and strength, 
is shade and timber,
is a habitat and a home -  
is beauty and grandeur. 
For, in my hand I hold a tree yet unformed,
a magnificent oak, 
broad, 
gnarled, 
and ancient.  

Potentially. 

But only if the jay forgets
where this little acorn will lie -
tucked away and encased
in the brown, old earth.   

The Conker harvest

Childhood delights 
are plummeting from the trees.
I go underneath to glean,
brown marbled treasures,
fresh from the pod, soothing to hold. 

The memories, rapidly invoked, 
cast me back under one favoured chestnut tree. 
I stand (a few feet shorter) under its boughs,
then gather with intent and purpose, all that I can see.  
One conker is never enough, neither two, three, or four...
20, 25, 30... now that's a good and satisfying haul!

Now, back in the present, 
I stand (a few feet taller), underneath this same chestnut tree,
and search - though perhaps with less vigour -
for those small, brown jewels
that enthral me still.
Only this time, I'm content with five, six, or seven -
leaving the rest uncovered, hidden.
Left for the next little boy,
to gather with all his might.