November at Gosling Sike
Breathless, breathing deeply
Passing by the jaunty multicoloured pebbles
Cheerful in restraint
As I escape constraint and limits,
Feeling freedom free from
Families and familiars,
A pathway strewn with days
Leads to the soupy mess
Of leaves and reeds
And reaching weed green fingers
Like waving coral, while I am out of reach.
The thistle heads on point of bursting
Brashly bob against the
Waving willow wickets in the wildlife wilderness garden,
While the wind runs fingers
Through my hair, shaken free from tether.
Teasel carcasses rattle
In this charnel house
Of apple bodies dropped discarded to the mulch.
And sloes on leafless twiggy branches
Milky dusted cataracts, signifying mortality.
But even in this world of copper coloured death
A proud pale primrose starts its life
Pushing through the swamping mulch,
And a heavy verdant rose of
Fleshy petals nurturing potential foxgloves
Starts the backwards twist
On the mobius strip of life.
By Susan Cartwright-Smith.