Autumn has truly arrived in Scotland.
Autumn has truly arrived in Scotland.
by Gillian K Ferguson11 Oct 2013
Burning berries machine-gun heavenly blue,
Firing seed, tree and water dreams
to the silver minds of distraught stars,
peering always in invisible darkness,
blinking away tears of dead light.
Crying so high - eerie glockenspiels -
to the spiralling ear, mute cochlea;
silent black drum of deaf space.
Billion year gaseous babies -
sucking dust and ice mouths,
throwing spectacular tantrums;
thirsty for milky whispers.
Or drip to earth. Spent, puckering.
Last scarlet embers
among summer’s crumbling golden ash.
Stoking foxfire flames
among plump, Honey-fungus candles;
consuming the druggie sunflower
sobbing her burned-out, ruined face away.
Furious clusters hang, flaming mad. Red as Hell.
Spark live vermilion filaments
in my marmalade halo of foxy autumn hair.
Which sense everything - vibrissae. Antennae. Pedipalps.
Supernatural barbels. Spirit-whiskers.
Ignite buttery light
sliding helter-skelter down the oily holly.
Clarifying glossy crusts,
smearing a gold litter of slim, musty corpses -
greasy, liver-spotted yellow leaves convulsing
like slow goldfish out of the right element.
Strip-teasing green spines, rusted feather skeletons,
as scalding red and orange sugars die.
Slothful pyres smouldering pensioner summer
into blue sucrose fumes.
Fugging my sooty smoker’s lung -
syrupy on the tongue
like the cloying muscatel of elderly lilies
tottering on the verge, dressed for the grave.
Scrambling through catty vampire brambles,
I clutch scorching berries in my sizzling fist;
my crimson kiss blistering bitter, frost-rimed lips
in tooth-splitting cold.
Wet blood cherries
ooze darkly from my stiff white fingersticks.
I blot startling clots on killer cobalt –
shining blood-berries printed, blackheart-red.
Coagulation of sweet salt, sea water, star-iron.
My bones turn zero-green.
Among a mothstorm.
Insane Lepidoptera - dazzled moth souls
stolen from midnight’s broken, starry cup.
Jagged equinox darkness.
To inhabit bronze snow - zombie-leaves.
Under my soles, dancing scarlet coals
of smoking berries strewn. Carpet-bombed.
Burning through dead leather, novacained meat,
muscle, to cinder magnesium bones.
Combust corpuscles - red erythrocytes,
in lukewarm sister-blood:
fire organic iron in mother-of-pearl veins -
sluggish, milky as a winter river
with cholesterol of ice.
Defibrillating cochineal shots
aim straight for my congealing heart.
Shocking the strange emotional muscle
with ruthless beauty –
as they riddled the Botoxed, imperial blue sky.
And I am hit. Reeling. Stricken
by the bleeding, burning,
shrieking little red mouths tree.
Berries store the golden blood of summer -
losing light as Sun and apples ripen shining red.
Sealing the sacred seed with scarlet wax:
her spring decree, self script,
inflammatory signature -
written in tempting crimson psalters.
Feeding prayer of the Holy Rowan -
angel-and-eagle-leaved protector of the home,
from raw enchantment - feral evil.
Feared even by wild young Highland witches:
snow-skinned, sleekit ginger bitches slinking
with gimlet-eyed wildcat; sneering, weasely
pine marten and fascinated stag familiars.
Metal diviner. Brewed spirit.
Drowned in a bowl of rosy water
for pink jelly, ruby wine.
Druidic dye for Moon ceremonies.
Each glowing berry anointed with a personal pentagram.
I will carry her rough crosses in my palm,
bound in blood-red thread,
or sewn in the goose lining of my coat.
Crude, effulgent wooden stars
with snowflake shadows - X-raying cloth.
Repelling malevolent spells - bottled
in crunchy blue bodies of insistent flies.
Hiding the giveaway brilliant bird of my delicious soul.
Trees will be sung from the gut of a hungry bird!
Given only the wetted black stomach of earth -
photosynthetic spring hymn;
chorus of melted light, washed water,
heard in the chlorophyll consciousness.
Forests of time coded in the domineering present -
these round, crimson-bound books of the centuries’ trees.
A tree grown in the dust of the first star:
I am executed by berries; ice-cream eyes shot -
right through the galactic starred pupil.
This excruciating tree will not let me go.
Even her skeletal, rusting green wings,
hunched on a crippled grey backbone,
prey on me.
With steeples of bleeding fingers
clotting on the cobalt altar -
to the last feral red drop, clutches.
Blue evening blinks -
sudden night is pinioned,
gleaming as a crow.
incensed as savage wind.
Furiously pecking out stars.
Nesting a coddled Sun-egg,
curdling gold -
rolling into the slowly purpling rose of the West.
It is black now.
But phosphoric berries have burned my scrawling retina -
like the sleepy harvester’s lids, hectic
with imprisoned raspberry spirits.
My fizzing brain spattered. Burrowed.
They will not be rejected by the fact of night.
For the Rowan burns - spits on still, unseen:
smouldering wee red holes in the Universe.
Acidly smattering my outstretched hand.
A gusted shower of scripted sparks inhaled -
internally, everything wet and red
turns incandescent fuel.
Lung-wings unfurl original feathers
of oxygenated flame -
firing my tree of petroleum veins.
Through brancharms, twigfingers,
evangelically uplifted. At last,
in the bluish bone church of my arched chest,
watered by such godly fire -
my heart star -
coruscating cold and bloody root: detonates.
Red dwarf remembering into muscular supernova.
In this scarlet illumination,
even the nature of stars is labelled -
clear as a neon sign to Infinity.
The volatile mother of galaxies is understood.
In mindless creation, a soul breathed first.
This red heart-star,
will survive me.
An identity of remembered energy.
Even in the slow soil furnace
where berries already wait, ruby eyes closed;
impossibly dreaming trees.
Even dying to a blue pilot light,
or struggling like a hurt bird
in the hands of an invisible, good God -
will always guide me back
to my aboriginal home.
Where berries are pearly stars -
already strung above
like clusters of Christmas mistletoe.
Earth kissing the spirit.