With huge thanks to Carol Leeming and the other workshop participants at yesterday’s writing workshop, a very rough draft of a season prose poem…..
You fall into mud
Feet of clay, quite literally, boots of sticky, viscous clay….weighing you down
Everything else is movement, shimmering, blowing, dancing in autumnal gales,
While you are stuck in mud.
This is the start of the end, the end of everything,
Death of grass.
Plans slip away,
Sucked into the mud
Light slips away
Tick, tock, tick, tick, tock, tock……tick.
You move, ungainly puppet,
Feet slip sliding,
Slip, sliding away
And your hand grabs at desperately at manes, whilst incurious, moon eyes regard your unsteady paces and they sure hooved judge you and find you wanting.
No longer an adequate herd leader.
Later, they stand at the gate,
Arses turned against the wind,
Still as if planted,
Growing in the mud,
Solid against your sloppy progress.
The herd follow,
Threaten to trample you into the bloody mud.
But your voice is lost, grabbed from you by a gust that sneaks up, steals sound.
You want to wave your hands, re-assert your place….push the horses away,
You know that this movement will unbalance you,
Speed the descent
The terrible inevitability of fall.
No way to hide that you have fallen,