Autumnal

Pastoral poem.

Branches form crosses,
And hold down burning light
Me to the ground of wild sweetness
With moaning air and slipping breeze.

Dead leaves and sliced up
Forest cages and fourteen reveries
Of irreversible road maps and veins
That have been kicked by wet boots.

A sudden shake,
A weary blasting opening into the egg of summer
Impregnating the frost and beckoning the death
Most naturally and colourfully.

The clouds are sad and mourn
In ornate wallpaper domes,
But the sun grins eons and washes
Myriads of bleeding woods.