Monday, 18 November 2013

Poem: Camping in Autumn

The water flows further east
It always does, towards the forest
Where soil tastes of blood and
Fungi school and sit, big-bulbed
And brown, smiling across at us

Moss spools in cracks and
Hack shaped crevices
Your fine hairs rise as I stir at creamy skin
Socks balled by the ruffled duvet,
The glorious smell of oak

Louise Soothill

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