Russet Rustlings Poem by C Richard Miles

I rustle through crisp clusters of lost, crunching leaves
Which gather, bunched and rusting russet, in the thickets
And sniff the wafting, musty, fusty, rustic scents
Of fungal undergrowth amongst sparse, once-lush bushes.

Last, rash, brash leaflets stick to sycamore and ash
But soon shall slip their tenuous grips and hustle, fluttering
To forest’s floor to settle, nestled in moist mash
To match the close-lopped, coppiced brushwood’s patchwork carpet.

Thin, drifting drizzle misting in swift, whispering winds
Will filter, sifting through the mulch and mix it richly
To squash to slushy mush through which I’ll dash and splash
In childish haste to rush as foolish passions grasp me.

This lasts until stiff fingers of first, harsh hoar-frosts
Soft sprinkle glistening glitter on the shrinking litter,
Skins stripped to skeletons of gossamer and twig,
Which vanish, ghostlike in snow’s muffling kiss of winter.