fall

strange buildings in the landscape
the sky bends in their glass
and we are invisible

our destiny is wound in the rings
of heartwood where we feel
the trees’ withered dying

autumn has come too late for us
to fall back on our simplicities
or find a way home

©BH, 2026

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I have a list of lines and titles, all those fragmentary thoughts that arrive unexpectedly. At least, I have a list of those I manage to capture before the world gathers me up and the thought is replaced by something altogether more pedestrian.

These nine lines arrived when trying, as I do, to flesh out a phrase into a piece worthy of the name, poem. 'Fall back upon our simplicities' was the start here. It very nearly got itself expelled at one point.

Then, I suppose, it would have been a self-immolation catalyst, a ghost line.