This poem was written sometime around 1986/7 by Me, aged 13 (or thereabouts). I’d completely forgotten I had written this, but as soon as I read it I remembered precisely when I had, and where it was about. Folk from school will probably recognise The Old Rec from our childhood.
Autumn Walk
A green tree
Standing high,
Dirty branches cross the sky.
Forked branches,
Like a Y.
Into the woods
Through a copse.
Arms out crying,
From a bush
Undergrowth trampled underfoot.
A dog,
Lapping the waters
Of a dirty stream.
In the shade,
Of the forked tree.
Out of the copse
And into houses.
Stretching forth,
Lapping up the woodland.
Across a concrete river
With concrete banks,
With iron ships, with gleaming eyes.
And rubber wheels,
Such to drive.
Then houses and wilderness begins,
Again, sweet country.
Open pastures
Echoed with snow,
Scattered snow.
Howling breeze
With chilly nip,
Freezing fingers from head to foot,
Blowing sand in obscure places.
Obscure places.
Tatty grasslands
Hosting wild flowers and grasses.
Stretching forth,
With outcasts of wood,
In prominent places.
Over scarce
Mounding high,
Is soft, white, cold snow.
Drifting here, filling hole,
Thawing.
Night clamps in.
Shutting all doors,
Darkening all trees,
For human eyes;
And more.
