A poem by Lucy Cooksedge: Monday, Mid October

dawn’s cool yawn at 7 o’clock

breathes blood orange, dripping down

onto the narrow path- a painting by leaves

as she strides- hopeful- to the library


while alarm clocks moan and buzz and tease,

with soft strokes,  auburn lines the streets

collected- she exhales minty air

like a great mythical something’s fiery breath

and caffeine drives scuffed white trainers


muddling that marble tapestry


a fading pale bikini strap glints quietly

beneath her checkered scarf,

(not like a fuchsia summer ghost

making for a sickly misty mind)

walking through the frost and through this change

there’s so much self to find


autumn poetry


Illustration by Isabel Kilborn


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