Huge thorny sweet chestnuts bloom
As blackberries wither on the briar
Lightly dusted in silver and sagging
Off the stalks.
The path lined with oak and bramble.
Wonderful hues of brown and gold
Are now littered against green.
The air is cool and moist
As autumn gathers around.

Tea stained blotches
Slowly spread across
thick green leaves
as July is pulled into
August. Fat blackberries
Are scattered into hedgerows of
Cow parsley.
Brambles reach out their forked
Fingers and nettles swallow the pathways.
I am looking forward to autumn
When I am no longer in a busy emerald city
But instead in cool quiet
Trudging through golden bracken.

The colour of fir seeps over the water
A bright spritely white tail dashes past
Home to it’s tea.
Mirror glass ripples as
It’s mist gently rises in the dusk
To form the dew that soaks the grass at sunrise.
Brilliant arcs swell behind
Coots tending the nest.
Blackness has nearly set upon the lake
A ghostly orange tinge on the
Horizon signals the dying of the day
Cold fingers and brisk steps.
Willows make rainbow archways
From bank to water
Lime green fronds dragging the current.
The platter of water drenched moss and spatter on stone,
Blossom trees fit to burst
Dozing in purple twilight

Getting goose bumps at the brush of new
leaves gushing together on a warm wind.
The soft crunch of grass underfoot
Like the pad of foot on snow.
A mustard brown duck waddles towards me, his comrade in tow,
over daisies snow dropped on grass.

Think of your favourite place.
I think mine would be the grassy downs
Where you’ll see a kestrel hovering,
Where I’m guaranteed an hour of peace,
Where in summer dandelion clocks
Sway silhouetted against
A golden sun.
Where I’ll be home.

Silent stillness.
Emeralds hang from the treetops,
glinting in milky rays of
a peeping sun.
Juicy buds gather,
tinkling birdsong amidst
the newborn canopy.
White sea-foam of
elderflower and meadowsweet
spray the grassy banks.

The magnolia was slowly turning to leaf.
Wide high heather hedged
around the cottage.
I suppress a cough
As the green man beeps for no cars.

The lake looked luxurious,
Opalescent folds of china blue,
Twinkling stars upon water,
Gold russet rushes gently swaying,
Lime catkins freshly woven onto dangling branches.
A Moorhen wades in the riverbed,
Diamond ripples orbiting its sillouhette.
Plump new leaves bedeck the low horse chestnut trees and their fingers stream in steamy shallows.

I can see Spring
and her fine colours
from afar.
I long to stand under the
cherry blossom tree as
it rains confetti down on me.
Instead I stand in real rain, hazy,
pattering, smatterings of daffodils
pressed against barbed wire.

I stand in the dilapidated chapel.
Paint peeling from the walls like the bark
of a silver birch.
Dull light cascades in from high archways.
I now approach the manor, in through
the kissing gate kissed with moss and dew.
A ****** of crows battle across the  battlements in still air.

I can see sand on the watery riverbed.
Dappled grey clouds reflected ripples.
A curious swan glides over to meet me.
Winter is relinquishing it’s hold
and grey-green grass is sprouting.
Shaggy sodden crows bob their heads and
the geese are calling.

Little droplets of green
speckle the woods.
High tinkling chirps is all I can hear.
Mossy bracken cobwebs the ground
and the puddles ripple as I trudge.

Hot, quiet and still days of June.
The air hangs and lingers,
Heat swirling creating bright
Beads of dew, popping up from your
Skin like little flowers or the
Tall grasses that curl towards the sun.

Sea foam and turquoise bubble bath
Waves crash. Or sigh on a clear day
Sigh with despondency at their monotonous lot. Maybe storms are their way of letting off steam, of screaming. High ocean froths at the mouth in anger.

Swathes of swollen, rolling hills
With chops of fluffy, dry grass scattered over. It’s nice knowing they’re also not perfect, no one has cleared away they’re loose ends.
Silver, bumpy cloud fluff is grasped and pulled along through the air.
Blowing wind is picking up planting a chill on my arms raising the little hairs like baby fuzz.

The blossom so sumptuous
Hanging in plump, sugared rose.
The new leaves dangling like lime green tear drops, glittering like jewels against the blazing evening sun, making you wink as it warms your face.

Feel like my life is when you're driving on the motorway, everything is grey and the same and there. And you occasionally smile and people in other cars but you can't reach them, and you're meant to be on the way to somewhere but it feels like you'll never reach it.

I search for love
A definite sort of love
The feeling someone wants me
The feeling that I'm worth something
But I can't find it anywhere
So I'm getting cheap thrills
From men who don't care
As long as my short is skirt
And I'm young whatever
But I'll take it,
Use it, pretend
That their lips caress mine
Because they love me
Rather than just
Because I am there.

Pretty soon the conkers would be falling, she could already see their
plump, cherubim bodies
spiked and dangling
like baubles,
or those underwater bombs,
from the oak leaves,
hanging limp.

I love this weather so much.
There's such a calm like no other 
that descends
over the quiet, big house
when the sky outside means
we have to turn on the low lamps
even though it's the middle of 
the day and
all you can hear
is distant classical music
upstairs and the soft,
crescendos of rain.
With chai and cinnamon
still on my lips
and heavy breath.

Down to the deep south
I trudge
down through the snow
with the pink,
pink clouds
scattering their
effervescence 
over spangled, darkened
farms and hay bales.
Across early orange
styles and frosted
footprints, into
fielded horizons.

This is Mrs Unknown.
She likes to roam
the rainbow
at night
or in her dreams
And fly with her razor fingers
splayed like the falling stars 
whos dust cascades
from the Heavens
into her fried egg eyes.
She likes to ballet
dance across the unwinding
circled junctions, like the moon, and
Sing song while her trainers jog
in rhythm to the bells and belts of starlight.

It feels nice to 
Finally have tears 
Fall;
After weeks of
Borderline crying 
But 
Frustratingly nothing
Coming.
Salty tears
Staining my cheeks
Dribbling,
Spilling,
Running from 
My lashes
Feels free.

Today feels like November.
Not quite the festive November, however the post exams should-be-happiness may be causing a
small sense of internal gladness, 
but the November which
foreshadows-  Time's eerie hourglass is long and hangs in the gloom
and you wonder 
where the light is.

The sky's lanterns shower powdered grapefruit in your eyes.
Lashed, mascara'd,
in doubt
The grapefruit turns to wine
And pours out the torn
pages.One by one
they disintegrate
Into the ashes 
smogged,
sogged,
at your
feet.

The silver
Birch trees flaunt
Their glitz as I 
Stroll through 
Deep pearl 
And sand
Pebbles

Gorgeous green
Mansions swirl
Around and
Blackbirds pick
Seeds from 
The posy bunches
And sparkled
Grass.

I pass a 
Pink butterfly house 
With large Daisy 
Heads protruding from
The diamond fencing.

The next house, a rather
Pretentious 'Cordillera',
Sounds like a disease.
A farm gate shields 
4 by 4s and I'm 
Now passing the weird
House with the crocodile
And gorilla and 
Coloured Cow 
And dog statues.

Coming to the
End of the lane
Of silver I pass
'Lane end'
Cottage with its viney
Stature and freshly 
Manicured front lawn. 
High cube hedges forming 
A pathway to the porch.

In The final 
Mansion if
Nosy passers
Have a peek you
Can see a 
Swimming pool,
Fluffy Towels draped over
The Silver pool chairs.

Flitting to 
The end of the 
Dappled birches,
Approaches
A wide country green
Covered in bunting
Bathed in buttercups.

The fish jumped out of it's tank 
this morning. It was a shock to 
see the empty bowl and hear
my gasp as I saw its sticky 
body, wet on the counter.
It was oddly poetic.
that's the second fish I've had 
jump out of its tank.
I don't understand
how it mustered the energy.
Maybe it was a suicidal 
fish, if fish can experience those
emotions?  
I treated it alright though.
Maybe it was sick
of being trapped in a glass
life and wanted freedom even
if the price was death.

Pearl flakes, delicate shards scatter,
shatter. Woven silently, heavily softly, slowly, wafting. Swirling into sparkling sundials.

The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air. 

The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.

The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.

I instagram 
Your heart on the wall
And let the love stew.
Materialistic love
Of cupboards and
vermillion hue.

I dimly wonder
why my eyes are filling
up yet again like 
hot bath tubs
which steam over 
before evaporating
into mist on the mirror.

Rose light streams
through the large cove of bay
windows like skinny,
taut ribbons, or
glinting spider webs,
onto the wall. Highlighting a
creamy expanse of cornicing
rising higher into
the infinite.

The purple haze
of heather had
dwindled in the sunshine.
Bluebells were breaking too,
their florets a flutter.
Smoggy incense rolls in
off the horizon smoking
over the crumbled mountaintops,
their peaks unable to break the surf.

5 am in mid July
and the sun is raising
golden trails in sky
and in the pools, following the
golden signet's flaming
vapour trails which, in polka-
dotted summer spawn, calm 
the water's satin, rippled peaks. 
Subsiding and gliding
into the stillness of emerald pond.
The signets move to the glistening
side of the river bank,
shafts of light catching
the lens forging ghostly 
golden sickles
which lengthen
amongst the dust hovering
aglow above silver cove 
and English lagoon.

My freckle flecked love
      stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
    as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
     seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
      smattering
a scattering of stars,
         onto snowy canvas.

I swirl the loose skin
of my forehead like the swirls
of stars, in weariness of the world.
My lashes beaded with drops,
from the shower that I was to tired
to dry, blur my vision like the floating boat clouds which blur
the moon to a
wisp
of smoke.
I lie, wet in my towel uncaring that
my body is forming a silhouette
of shadowed dampness on
my bed.

Golden calm flows through me as the glittered dragonfly's frame and fairy wings buzz over pooled Monet oil.

I just heard something-
Like a snake in the wall
A hiss then a thump.
I wonder if it was a rat
I thought they were dead.
I wish they were dead.
I'm so sick of constant
fear of my house, the
anxiety of the grisly 
undercurrent,
running through
the walls and making
The floor shake.
I'm sick of the thudding
under my ribs which
painfully quickens
as I stare out the
black, transparent windows
from the lit utility room
into the darkness beyond.
I hate how exposed I am there.
I'm sick of the chairs in the
the loft which, when you
are not there, softly roll.
Or the printer screetching
A print even though no one is
There to print!
I'm terrified of your ashes
sitting silently above me.
Maybe it's me though
And not this house.
Perhaps I am
just paranoid.

Autumn trudgings lurk the air
Searching for a soul to bare
Their weight upon, so heavy
They break from trees in heady
Harmony, brown and sog
Yet crisp in the fog
mist mornings which creep
Into road as an early sun peeps
Above our golden horizon folding into
Faded merry-go- round and blue.
Autumn days are fairly sad
As you wait for dormant trees to sag
And groan
As their coverlets are blown
Onto the soft down
Of concrete frown.
These are the autumn days to me
Brown, melancholy, mahogany.

Tightly curled
leaves gracefully unfurl from their
grey cocoons into beautiful pastel shaded lime.
It's a surprise when used to 
the barren, pre-spring wilderness
to be ****** into the flourish
of fertility.

Sickly sensuous, the tree's burning branches twisting towards the frosted eternal ceiling, sunken hollows and curved swings are fragilely bound by frayed roots which grow by day under cheerful sundials reflecting the sky's chiffon ripples.
Joining the trees bowing branches were spidery threads scalloped between the mosaic webbings of wooden latticework; 
The odd turtle dove getting caught momentairily in the silver embroidery and cooing in alarm, before cooling under the star-shine.
Amorphous, brushed clouds rolled in rhetorical significance unknowing of what power the wind holds,
whilst black sac ravens drifted aimlessly down the purple road like the dry tumbleweed.

The leaf frays under chaste
turpentine which fractures
it's skeleton and tumbles
to bed whilst
raining silver strikes
air raids to the wind and fires
the sirened sun
who was soaking asleep 
in a bath of roses as the moon blossom glided down the slippery *****.

The braches of the faint oak were bewitched to a dark gold under
the orange, thick silk sunset. 
The wood, as the sun lowered, changed from apple green
to golden billow
which swept foamy,
rose clouds along a now cucumber, blurry horizon.
Plump plums and fruit rinds
litter ripe walkways alongside the flower beds who's tickled buds
are closing slightly as the fickle sky, gone nine, turns to a majestic
Indian blue and the June monastery's milky swirls are lit by the sugar lump stars.

It's 5:11am. A pretty time.
The street lights outside, in my dipped  valley lane,
glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn.
The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can
hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.

The tree's knarled,
melted bark dripped down
the warm, burnt umber
in its spokes, dropping mellowed honey as we climbed the branches.
We spoke of sweet things
like the kind frosts creeping into the valleys of misted bloom, as the silver crescents rise higher by day,
entangled by wreathes of smoke.
We spoke of that very oak tree and how it's palsied trunk had witnesses so many fires.
We spoke of love and how (despite the cliche) we can not live without each other. We together will beat on through the charms of the cold thistle.
We dance round the dusky colonnades as the stars shatter around us and the moon's cancerous head rides higher.

The sun
And scattered blossom
And bursts of fruitful leaves
Are mocking me this morning
As I glumly tread to school 
Thinking how I hate 
Everything.

The coffee cup is stained red
From strawberry chuppa chups and your lipstick, honey.
The salty liquid from its fibres
Evaporates under your fierce breath. Despite this, your voice is thin, ragged
And worn. How has life been treating you?

Cold days and snowy nights
dissolve into the glow
when we come home from the sweater weather.
In from the cozy autumn day.
In from a day in which sunlight
dappled the tree's bark
like the zig-zagged icing
and french dough.
A day of mittens so only your thumbs protrude.
A day like kittens which tumble in
happiness and innocence.
Into the oak, with the window
in which tear drops
chase themselves away
down the pane and
the cool air is made hot
with cocoa frothy cream
and pumpkin.
We smoke on curled cinnamon sticks
which splinter like burnt logs
on an fire of embers.
The silhouettes of our shadows
catch on the horizon
as we watch the spectrum
scatter from the warm
cream to the dusty
pumpkin to cocoa.

Golden shawls envelope
flushing, blending fabrics
which billow 
under the waxen blackbird's
silky braided feathers.
Heaven's vault, a celestial sphere of blue yonder,
a swirling palette of oils
suffusing and dancing,
wrapping their ringlets
into one thousand spirals
which signet shadows onto the 
slender impressions in the sog.
Illuminous, voluminous salmon
bleaches blushing black tissue
to pale primrose promising the cobalt then marrying to aquamarine.
Stained glass fingers barely protruding from aurelian pews.