Dog-led, we trample
through russet, rustling carpets
past denuded hedgerows
chill air nipping
at our exposed faces;
our breaths ectoplasmic.

A ribbon of smoke,
a grey plume, spiralling
against the dimmet.

At the lodge gates,
lamps glow golden
as the batter on cod.

We turn our backs
to the dark-capped wood,
our faces to the fire,
whilst feasting on the flesh
and bones of a day,
basted in rich autumnal hues.

Alyson Faye
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