Autumn

Autumn, now, and the trees know what to do.
Winter coming, Winter looming.
The days are protracted. The nights are thick with dark.
And we are too: but muddling though.
There are no trees here,
And I miss the woods. The forests.
I miss the colour assault of the leaves,
The reek of memory,
The feel of the fungi exploding at my feet.
I miss the feeling of being so small,
Of being tiny beneath the trees.
The air here stains; the memories hurt;
The concrete giants. The buildings dwarf.
I am sick of the taste of this town.
It congeals on the roof of your mouth and stays there,
Foul and fixed. Immovable.
All the lights are garish,
And the sounds unlistenable;
Whilst the forests of my youth
Sing forever sublime and simple
In my memory,
Frozen in time,
Preserved forever within my child-locked mind.