I was thinking of visiting you
By now you will be mystified by leaves
Haunted by squirrels and small slow maggots
Fingering and boring into the sainted bark.
I feel you in the sunset when the shadows
Skitter over my hands and upturned face.
In the night I hear your low thrumming breath
The way of sleeping which is simply rusting
Composting dreams into mole hills.
Bracken sprays its spores across the humus
The deer rise astonished
Their bright muzzles wet with nuzzling
The mush of viridian and sap green grass.
I truly think the forest took you.
I swallow the juice-truth and it neither comforts
Nor disturbs; as in a deep wisdom
Or a mournful song, or the peet-peet
Of the little owls, or the spread of light
From a lit orb; I could go on
Weeping into the chasms of my heart
Stumbling along word paths
Searching in all the godly places-
The stupid lost loving little life of a beetle.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018.
Picture shows detail of a winter scene by the artists and poet


The Little Ones


We didn’t tread this way
Because we chose it, rather
It was the way the wind blew down
The ginnel into the heathland
Bending the soft cocksfoot and fescue
To a whitish silver footpath
That we wound down
Pushed by forgotten fists
And slaphard shoves

This crooked stump of half rotten wood
The squat of fungi and shy beetles
Did you think we do not want a fireplace
And two painted smugfaced greyhounds?

We do have sharp stingers
And the antidote, kind dockleaf
A couple of rusted knives and a dug up pin.

Yes, it is the whyplace and the halfpath
And we do like crooked things now
So don’t come when we are skiving rabbits
About half past foggy in November.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

Photograph of handmade fibula by Veronica