Filigree Bunting

I can feel the brown leaves underfoot and feel them crack and break against the soul of my shoe as I shift my weight from right to left and back again.

            I hear the sound of my purple dyed leather gloves making almost ripping noises against the bark where my father had calved our names as children.

            In front of me and down the short decline the water in the lake is rippling from a soft wind that is passing threw, softly like whispers of a thought crossing your mind.

            The almost nutty smell of damp earth clings to the air that chills my cheeks, nose and chin.

            Golden leaves hang like filigree bunting from the spindly branches as I turn to my sister who slumps down besides me, sitting on the tree root to the carving tree, brushing my shoulder with the coast as she does. She babbles about mushrooms she’s collected in a used teacup and my mums voice says poisonous from out of my mouth, as if we are still children placing chestnuts upon tree stumps for the fairy and squirrel parade. 

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