It's Still Life

In the Same Way an Algebraic Equation Can

A morning walk can empty my brain.
I am walking my customary route, 
past the oak tree, its acorns rolling
underfoot like marbled pebbles on
a Sussex beach.

Oh how I love delicate batter fried cod
and sharp stinging sea air in my lungs.

Holly berries, pressed into bursts of red,
and now a right turn toward the creek.
I see the nettles have returned to roots.

And when this lockdown is a history,
I shall brace myself on a bald chalk hill,
sea air salting my hair and filling my head.

The creek’s running high from overnight
rain, and I am bright as green this morning.
Spring-like in mid-November. To my relief,
she’s coming home from hospital today.

My lovely old aunt who is a seam
of myself. We are all destined to end,
and perhaps I shall know hers when
a soft gust of wind closes my door.

And now over the footbridge. My shoes
beat warm tones of wood underfoot.
Is there a word for that sound – that
mellow percussion of wood?

Memory can be exhausting.
And now

through the iron kissing gate, and into
the forest. A tickle of leaf mould in
damp air. Reds and golden ambers
for the doubters. A snap of a twig.

Again, it’s the wood. The woods.
What is the word for that sound?

dverse neighbourhood witness (I tried to keep to Peter’s prompt but the result was disappointing, so I went a bit off piste with it)    © Misky 2020