Autumn In The Forest Mist hangs in the air Bellowed forth from the lungs of a blackened stag. His imprint scars the landscape Antlers tangled in twisted thorns Soft underfoot This land yields to my steps This forest smells of rain It scatters in a flurry of droplets, shaken from vivid fox fur His cunning is of the trees, an autumnal undercurrent that washes through the stillness Flashes of gold and red clinging crisply on To twigs that snap under my steps Wind chills to the bone Icy claws scraping against cool stone, a badger scrabbling for purchase His fur consumes the weather, imperfect grey of slush and snow melding into the depths Of his wild stare That scatters at my steps And what am I? Grown not from the forest Ginger hair flung wildly back, the wind does not address me, it fights me This snow does not welcome me, it trips me These thorns are not of me, they seek to part me And the leaves seem to die at my touch I am not a child of this forest And I do not belong