Autumn in the
In the Gredos mountains
early sun fights through the mists,
making poplar trees shine
like golden exclamation marks
against the coppery bracken.
My boots tread silently
cushioned by springy moss.
An insistent breeze flicks the willow leaves
exposing ripples of silver, a shade darker
than the brilliant waterfall
and the sparkling cobwebs.
A signal-red patch on the rock face
a silent warning bell:
Is that an abandoned rucksack,
or even a body?
No, binoculars reveal
a triumphant bush,
leaves aflame,
roots in a narrow crack,
competing for life with moss
the colour of corrosion.
So relax, follow the pale limestone track
towards the plains around the Rio Tajo
where cattle graze the cork trees from below
creating mounds of uniform canopies
floating on twisted charcoal stems,
like the cumulus clouds float
on the opal sky spanning
an electric blue river.
Below the slow-moving surface
emerald tendrils caress rocks
worn smooth by their journeys.
Marianne Whiting