Wood-smoke

Wood-smoke

 

Wood-smoke blowing in writhing sheets

beneath grey skies laden with impending rain

The ground gritty with fallen, gnarled acorns

And the outer shells of horse chestnut,

The shining conkers lying shyly among leaves

Fallen first from the laden boughs.

A smell of spice, illusory and fleeting

From the foliage turning slowly golden

Crisping slightly with autumn suns

Too brief to warm the earth much

Beyond the surface of the soil.

Birds tug at berries, peck at brambles

Seeking sweetness they cannot taste.

The rain comes at last, changing the scents

Filling the air with petrichor and promise.

We hunker down, collars turned

And make for home and hearth.