‘Paths’ is a poem about that crossover time between autumn and winter; for me, characterised by falling yellow leaves and the appearance of chestnuts underfoot.  For the first 6 years of my life in Ireland, I lived beside one of the gates into Curraghmore Estate, (the historical house and grounds belonging to the Marquis of Waterford).

In late October / early November, I only had to step inside the gate to be in a world of glorious autumn.  The ancient trees released their colours, the fungal life bloomed and the crop of chestnuts could not be surpassed.

My new location is pretty, with mountain views, but has easier access to amenities.  I like it a lot, but I do miss the wildlife that used to unfold right on my doorstep.  As always, poetry holds the memories.

Paths

Poetry of Seasons

As we climb in yellow-winged rain,
we speak of Christmas and hunched twigs,
tree trunks overawing,
scars entrenched, a skin of ages.

The ground opens its earth-heart,
sombrero mushrooms huddle,
chestnuts are mildewed hedgehogs,
spines denying fruit.

A sweeping train of hang-dog cold
stings our eyes to focus.
Each thought drags its feet to the point
where clarity meets the freezing day.

So many paths branch.

K. S. Moore

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