The challenge was to write something that was ‘against type’; in some way opposite to how you would usually write. I identified that my poetry usually sticks to rhyme and meter, and is mostly reliant on metaphor and simile. I tried to write a lovely seasonal piece without any of these things, and this is the result.
The wind blows gently in the trees
Your head is on my shoulder
I feel the cool of the decades-old bench, covered in patches of moss and grass. Cold or wet, it is near impossible to tell
There is a spice in the air; the pepper-smoke of fire and twigs and mulch
Slow heartbeat, no movement, save for the squeeze of a hand on my arm
I reply with a grip of your knee
Far-off bird calls and the gentle ever-present hum of a road, out of sight
Slightly too warm beneath our coats, from the climb up the slope
Slips of mud and flaked bark-scrapings adorn our clothing
Black soil on palm, brown earth at our ankles
Glad for the warmth, as the cold air stings us and turns our cheeks ruddy
Clouds above and before us, lumpy and majestic, broken in patches and separated by huge expanses of the darkening blue-orange sky beyond
The clouds are pinks and purples
A range of hills at the horizon, hiding the sun, but gilt-lined and glittering; black at their bases
Spots on a hillside, maybe cows, maybe trees, too far to tell
Closer fields are bare now, the harvest long behind us, a stretch of winter ahead
A solitary tractor, no longer used, but not yet put away
You exhale, creating a fleeting cloud of your own
I exhale to see my own cloud, but it does not linger as long as yours; perhaps you breathed more deeply
You smile and close your eyes again
I smile, tickled by our exchange, and plant a quiet kiss in your chestnut hair
Your hair always smells this pleasant, but isn’t usually this bright hue. Trick of the light? Time of the year?
The wind changes, I feel it coming from the south side of the slope, I hear it shaking the branches behind us
A dog barks. Did it also notice the wind change?
A few leaves fall in front of my view; yellows, browns and oranges, in ovals and stars.
The dog barks again, followed by the flurried beating of wings and the rustle of a hedgerow
I don’t see the birds rising, but I know they’re somewhere. Probably a pheasant or grouse
The clouds continue their slow pace across the sky, though they have darkened somewhat
I look at my watch. It’s harder to read than I had expected
The last of the light is disappearing now
I sit in this comfort and exist with it, with you
My scarf around your throat. The chill on my neck begins to permeate my collar
I don’t say a word about it, though I hope you’re warm, at least
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