The Wood That Was Left To Rot


Brambles scarf wrap anything
that stands in their zone.
Their ends dip into the soil like dolphin
noses in the sea.

Tree roots naked with wind erosion, their
ankle bones showing. Mushrooms
been and gone, nothing left to give.

Owl hoots echo somewhere deep
coming out only in booms of thunder.
Footpath hanging on to treads, paw pads,
from the once regular walkers

The wood is left to rot, browning
as a bruised apple.
Standing as a lost partner
where love was split by a crack of lightning.

By Gareth Culshaw


Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

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