The Autumn Wood Poem by John Rickell

Smells in the autumn wood
There are smells in the autumn wood
Jack can't resist, rabbits older, bolder
run across his path, ferns less dense
paths a mattress of leaves and twigs
scents odours, burrows new and deep.
I hear the birds, but hardly ever see,
counter-points to rival Bach,
a symmetry of notes wrought
times long ago, unchanged, secure.
We copy best we can, tune the flute
to entertain pixies in the wood
but dawn in summertime
when all awake and yet to eat,
more than worth the loss of sleep.
Hear the pigeon's noisy flight
“caw caw! ” of rooks untidy nests,
come here every year, each time
to build another nest to blow away.
I come for entertainment, to think
important thoughts for which
there seems no time, until I find
it here among ferns and brambles
falling trees and autumn mushroom;
moods to contradict my whims, to
leave behind with mull and rain.
Then replete, again for home, another
day until I come again to share;
a little wiser, just a little,
I have much to learn, time flies so quick
and the bird is on the wing.
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