The Forest

Falling leaves and pumpkin spice

a carpeted floor of reds, oranges, a secret of green.

Did you see which way the rabbit went?

The flowers are dying now

the ones piled up

to remember the dead.

She was found in the forest

her body strewn out

like marbles.

Squirrels are gathering

birds are abandoning

but the forest stays.

Its presence is fairytale and terror.

Enchanting for a walk to get lost in your dreams

of fairies and unseen things.

Tragic for the hiding places

and ivy covered faces

consumed by the dangers of

The Forest.

I left that grey castle

like every other day

and every day thereafter.

Midday to escape the coffee-making talks

the weekend-breaking squawks

the fluorescent tubes buzzing above my head.

And the screen which never slept.

I walked head down, past lunchtime drivers

and car park diners.

I walked away to the forest.

Four hours of nerves

escaped on my breath, recycled by the trees

into fresh ideas.

The crunch of the leaves

the smell of the dirt

and nothing the colour of grey.

I lay with the dead flowers, the ones to remember her by.

I was jealous of her decaying beauty.

She had escaped this world of

black mirrors

worn down fingers

and tightly closed windows.

Her secret resting place

her ivy covered face

embraced by the wonders of

The Forest.