Milt
October is cold blooded,
sliding towards the end of the year.
The air thins into water
where trees shed their rusted scales
and let them sink to the bottom.
It doesn't walk into autumn
it swims,
a copper-bellied creature
gliding under the overhang of frost
parting the mist with a silent tail.
You can see the flash of its orange flank
in the brief, amber slant of five o'clock light
a sudden twitch of fire
in a freezing stream.
Then the current pulls it under.
October dives deep,
beneath the shelf of November ice,
leaving nothing but a ripple
and a sudden, sharp chill
left behind in the lungs.
About the Creator
Alyson Smith
Neurodivergent, working-class writer and artist diagnosed with Bipolar. Based in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. MA in Creative Writing. Currently waitressing while finishing my novel.
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