Hampstead Heath
We turn around the Kenwood Henry Moore
Seeking subtle craft with bulbous shapes
Formed in words to contemplate and pour
Our thoughts in molten bronze as vapour drapes.
The air is bitter with the tang of mould
Yet bears the glow of warmth within your palm.
Caressed in blood, arrays of russet gold
Offset the oily droop of crow beak calm;
So stealthy black they stab beneath the lawn
To pluck out acorn eyes where squirrels hide
Their secret store. We find the casings torn,
The kernels gone, but strolling do not chide
Those clever thieves. Beyond the sullen lake,
We pause reflective in the dusk of oak
To soak up woodland spirits as they wake
A carousel of silence we evoke.
Under the solitude of that great tree
Our senses share this autumn majesty.
I've scanned through a couple of the poems on here but this I read twice. I can smell the season. I can see skeins of mist above the ground, like spider webs.
Well written.