deepundergroundpoetry.com

Autumn in Sherwood

 
We watched them fall -
the late October leaves
from silver birch and ancient oak -
and, whimsied,
called,
as children come into this forest
often do,
to Robin and his men,
long dead, ghosts all.
But still
we heard from far away
the echo
of a warning call from hunting horns
and then
within the gentle lacey hiss
of all those downward
blood red spiralings,
the whispers, fierce, intent,
of arcing arrows piercing air.
Written by Baldwin
Published
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