New Forest Autumn by Laura Brinson

Spokes of light pierce broadleaf trees
pointing a way west

drifts of leaves filter down
paths lost in a russet sea

off piste in a tumbling
leaf-crunching way

deep in the woodland
pungent ripe delight

a fairy ring of fungi
unseen mycelium filaments

knit together 
renewal and decay

down in the moss I listen for the forest voice
hear only my own heart beat


Laura Brinson lives in Melbourne, Australia. She reads, writes, recites at open mic events, gardens, and sews. Her sewing room, in which she makes wedding dresses and costumes, catches the morning sun. Her poetry is reflective.


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