Fingertips perched as light as sparrow feet
on the branches of your shoulders,
snow could settle in your stillness
if it weren’t so cold.
Instead clouds build beneath us
a bed of air and ice
that a single shiver
would be enough to break.
It feels as if we are introducing you to Autumn. Slowly, and with care. Small hands, fingers fisted before bursting open like early fireworks. Breath-taking. Quite literally. Little face, big eyes, shadows for brows. All of these things change as the season steps in, lifts you from your bassinet, pinks your cheeks.
Look– at how much you’ve grown, at how the leaves have turned so quickly, these layers forming one over the other. Breath, and breeze, across your vocal chords. Outside a storm is cooing through the branches, changing notes, the strength of it lifting tree roots from their standings. When the winds settle, we sweep all the chaos beneath carpets, smooth the lines till they’re crisp. Pat you stomach. Tell you, that this fire is good.
The sky is beaten grey,
the metallic sheen of swords
unsheathed and waiting.
When the trainer asks
‘did you forget to breath’
it sounds stupid,
and unfortunately true.
A little like thinking
too much about the doing
so the thoughts twist knots
into your limbs.
The panic welling
in much the same way
as your lungs swelling up
against your rib-cage.
You were sure you were,
then you’re not sure,
suddenly so unsure
you can’t even breath
without counting
each gasp.
In…
out…
in…
in…
out..
out..
In…
In…
In…
Out…
Out…
Out..
…
I followed your path,
at a distance.
You like the sun,
or any volatile star
burning a streak
towards the horizon.
A scorching vision
to those of us
watching, waiting.
Aware
that you would set
before us.
Terrified of dusk.
Sensing its arrival
anyway.
The peas have podded. I’m not sure if it’s the snap, or your bog standard, good old trusty garden type, but they’ve podded first with the white petals of the flowers still stuck to the green of their shells.
Inside the crop is still too small, too young. I checked today. Popped my nail into the seam, slit through the flesh, cracked it open. New growth, old book. They both sound the same.
They are not ready for harvest, but when you bite down they explode. They taste like spring, or summer, or something else that’s hot days and sudden rain storms. They tasted like they should do. New and fresh.
It’s been a wet one,
this spring, this downpour of water
thickening the green.
Carol J Forrester 
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