These first cool mornings are redolent with fallen apples’ sweet, rotten scent and dry grass littered with foliage. Flowers fade; leaves turn from green to brown with nothing in between, and crops gave up weeks ago. But this is not autumn. Nature’s grabbing what she can, counting the souls of every aliferous foliole before abandoning us to the susurrus, the unsettling tinnitus of leaves fried by the sun.
Kim M. Russell, 6th September 2022
I was inspired to write this poem by an article by Alys Fowler, a gardener and Guardian columnist. It was perfect for this week’s Poetics at the dVerse Poets Pub with Mish, in which she has ‘a word for that’.
Mish has provided us with a wide choice of memes of unusual words with which she has been inundated in her Facebook feed and asks us to choose three or more of them (and any words in bold type within the prompt) and include them in a poem of any style. She suggests using one of the words as a title and spring boarding off it as a theme, which I have done with the wonderful word feuillemort, which means the colour of a dying leaf.