The Season of Truth
A cold wind.
Whatever was here has fled inside
or has curled up in a corner somewhere
out of sight and gone to sleep.
Footpaths are tiled in the wet,
skeletal remains of leaves
and tree trunks have begun to wear
their gray winter coat of lichen.
There is an honesty in the landscape,
the scaffolding that holds form
together is no longer concealed
by a camouflage of color, the eye
is confronted by what lies beneath.
Cover withers away to bare ground,
the earth takes breath, bathes
in the chilly glow of a winter sun.
I also come to this place,
to this stark season of truth
and see myself stripped back
to the bones and sinews of me.
The wind blows through the same
vacant spaces, unpicks the pretense
to let a cold light shine through.
I don't like what I see.
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