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.