Unspoken

 You say, ‘It’s over.’
And I think you might be talking to the fire
As it sighs and curls, and falls asleep,
In the cradle of charcoal and tender ashes
And I try hard not to notice  
How roughly you kick your boot
Through the soggy, amber leaves
And the clagging mustard of rot
And the flat, leather mushrooms
And the beaded cobwebs
And the forgotten acorns
And the ring of pale feathers
And the cruelty of moonlight
And the meaningless sorrow of tiny bones
And the relentless smell of mildew
And the misery of all the crawling things
And all the sticks and all the stones…
 
And in the car park
You drive away too quickly
And don’t wait for me 
Or the unexpected fox
Caught too long in the headlights.