Autumn writing workshop…..rough draft piece

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
Held fast

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
Clock ticking
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,
Heads lowered,
Still as if planted,
Growing in the mud,

Solid against your sloppy progress.

The herd follow,
Threaten to trample you into the bloody mud.

You shout,
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.

Mud stained.
Mud shamed

No way to hide that you have fallen,
Are falling
Into fall


About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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