Words by A Wensley

Held, with love I’m wearing my strapless dress today The one you bought me as a skirt, Free from the self-constraints of bras  And the uniformity of past Seasons, Free from the Motherly idylls Imposed on me by a world of others, Free from the servitude  To ‘you should be this’ And ‘you should be that'. It's September  And a cheer-up of long-tailed tits fly overhead, Pausing awhile to converse Amongst the branches above me; Amongst the heady scent Of the fragrant-flowering hedge I cut back yesterday, Freeing the footpath for primary-schoolers and prams, In the magenta hareem trousers That you bought me. My sky-blue painted fence  Reflects the Autumn sunshine Back onto my unmasked face. Here I rest,  Waiting for a sign, a look of love; To be noticed for the me That resides here free - Yet longing to be held. A robin alights from the hanging tray Of our bird feeder, He too is free yet seeking nourishment. I sit here, calm in the reassurance   Of knowing,...

The Spirit of (False) Autumn Autumn arrived this morning, too early; A ghost-glance shiver-slip of a woman Wrapped in a crisp crumpled-leaf cloak, The drought of dry spells visible in her sun-scorched skin. She walks silently through the hedgerows Summer's late-born Sister casting shadows over seed heads, Rendering their future fertility futile. Product of the burning-turning skies She is grey, haggard as an Ash in dieback, She looks through me, haunted, The promise of colour we so often seek, Nay EXPECT of true Autumn,  Stands falsely before me, drained of all joy, Her Amazon-box-like existence a scorching of brown, Life-eaten, beaten. I turn in my doorway to send her away, But wait! I watch as a rogue gust of wind tousles her reddening hair like a lover, Teasles reach out to brush her, And, beneath the folds of her receding green skirt I see her scarlet calves, Dripping with blood, from burnished brambles - She lives! Quick, give her water, drink dear friend, drink! Autumn arrive...