Meter

Nicola Healey lives in Buckinghamshire in England, and her poems have been published widely in U.K. journals, including The Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The London Magazine and Wild Court.

I liked reading that leaves don’t fall in autumn; they’re pushed. It captures nature’s cold practicality, and the human tendency to fall for appearances, illusions.

When light and warmth dwindle, a layer of cells starts to spread where leaf stalk meets twig, like cauterization.

The death-pitted dormant tree looks ahead without a flicker in its heartwood.

Everything is mostly gray, sleeping or decayed.

A few brittle curls cling to the willow’s bones—dead but life won’t let go of them, as though their shreds still have something to give.

They seem both abandoned and noble in their outstaying.