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.