Salt, sogginess, pinewood
smell
eddy
in the mist of the
morning.
The air is muted
in the soft wadding
of autumn gloom.
A longing silence
in the wake of the departing
birds
settles on the land.
Nothing,
after a storm of
chirping.
Train whistles far,
far
away.
A sign of the coming rain they
say.
A chilly breeze
rustles the brick red
leaves
on the vine overhead
in a murmur of
reminiscence.
Vineyards are bare,
light,
relieved.
The crushing of dry
leaves
underfoot
- crispy crunching -
like the breaking of your
old, sun dried
bones.
Dead.
Some of Brigita Pavsic's recent and forthcoming publications include short stories and poems in Rose & Thorn Magazine, Autumn Sky Poetry, BluePrintReview, Foundling Review, Storm at Galesburg anthology, and others. She lives in Slovenia, where she works as a literary translator. You can read her blog at: bsoulflowers.blogspot.com.
| It was just around this time last year that I moved from my childhood home into a new place in a new region. The smallness of Slovenia could deceive the uninformed into thinking that the whole country must be pretty homogeneous and dull, but the fact is that every little corner is surprisingly different from the next one. So, although I moved only fifty miles away, the nature, people and life as such were suddenly different. The splendor of the fall in my new home and the emotional stress of the move conjured up a storm of imagery that was both sad and startling at the same time. I tried to capture the sensation in this poem. |
