I was interviewed by the Derby Evening Telegraph yesterday. I must get used to being asked about my favourite poets. One of the names that popped into my head was 'Emily Bronte' but in truth I only remember reading one of her poems -
'The Prisoner' which we did at school (quite appropriate for the miseries of teenage-hood). I looked at some of her other poems hoping to find one about Autumn, but most of them are wintry in the extreme.
The closest I can come to an Autumn poem is one I've recently written about a tree I sent off for (a small one - to plant in my garden!) after collecting tokens from a few gallons of yoghurt.
Today's factoid:
Derbyshire Wildlife Trust are currently searching for the oldest trees in the county.
Planting the RowanBlackbird clacks day’s end through undergrowth.
A week past autumn equinox. We should go in
but keep on, half a cup of cold tea rain-flecked
on a stone, nettle-bites inside wet gloves.
Knees sag with mud, backache as yet benign.
A bramble gives. I’m flung back.
Lights along the row like honey toast.
Shouldering the drizzle, we’ve amassed
a heap of rot-stripped doors, roots, bucket rims.
Downhill from everything we’re nose to earth,
breath - raw damp clumps. A little more.
It’s painful to unbend, stretch to the last grey line
of light. I kiss you, plant the tree
whose bed is soft stroked loam. From inside
it will look so dark out here
we’ll wonder how we saw our way at all.
