Light unloosens itself. Space slackens.
A figure of a shadow I have conjured before
anonymous eyes. Lapping up the waiflike bleakness
of their elliptical faces.

                               I must teach the trees to let go
of autumn, and relegate spryness to the hearth
of cold without merit, this slow, claiming mutiny
with its face-oval peering through windows multiplying
lovelessly, a crunch of a leaf, suchlike, flourishing
in peerless company. Before me, the sound of footfall
preparing to make sense, a rotunda of bell – that movement
of somebody done for, so ****** the scald welt of ******,
the belch of the world like a pore clearing its squalor.
Or the toppled verdigris of gull.

    Autumn’s greater extension, the abeyance, smilingly
a facsimile of crowds – its roads adorned with laburnum
singeing through the morning’s cauldron, a waft of bald terrain
inflamed, drawing with absence
      a crippled drip of rain back into the world’s dim address.

The thrill is palpable,
Pulsating, powerful,
Electric,
Fierce heat it emanates,
Warming our faces,
We are radiant, we glow,
We both feel it,
We both know,
But none of us
is brave enough
to reach out right now,
so we just breathe with bated desire
and watch the lush fire,
crackle, hiss, seductively bloom,
one impatiently waiting for the other
to make the *first move

i want to dip my finger
into happiness
and let it drip
into my mouth
savoring the taste.

Not  so  much  a  pitter-pattering.
But  a  downpour,the  rain  here.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere. UK. 2016.