Changing the Guard

a raw-eyed wet sun 

bleeds like a sore, an angry wound

splashing the mottled

understorey through a ride of birks

slim silver-skinned trunks 

stand sentry, on fire, like knifes,

young ferns lick around the

 splitting bark as flames do kindling,

along this molten path, the 

fluidity of lengthening shadows

tarnishes the golden leafy path,

we stare backward, peer forward

as litter wraiths rising up 

fascinate our wary eyes,

a funereal chill is portent

there is change in the air

and old becomes new

there is news abroad

with not a word spoken

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22