Saturday, 15 October 2011


Slipping from their cups the acorns rain, making

Tiny disturbances in the universe.

Clattering gently through dark boughs, blue beyond,

They pool around stiff trunks, their newness fading

As they fell; they crack now beneath the foot,

Brittle brown, translated from seed to sound.

Here on the Heath on an October afternoon,

The sun destroying vision, the acorns rain

And the shades of ancient poets

Flit between the hedgerows, comfortingly sighing.

Wynn Wheldon

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