Tag Archives: fall

18th October 2013 – fall

Posted on October 19, 2013 by Liz Terry

A blissful roll on my lap becomes a frantic scramble. Her body twists and turns, tail swishing. Inevitably, she hits the floor. Shaking her head, she begins to wash her paw self-consciously. Dignity must be upheld.

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3rd October 2013 – horse chestnut leaf

Posted on October 4, 2013 by Liz Terry

Caught by the back windscreen wiper, flattened against the blackened glass. It flutters gently as the car moves off. Yellowing with age, ripped from its tree by the autumnal fall, it gives its last display.

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14th July 2013 – geranium leaf

Posted on July 15, 2013 by Liz Terry

Dying off to allow for new growth, it turns a bright blood red. Half a year indoors has kept it living, but a price must be paid. Soon it will shrivel and fall, a false autumn engineered by human hands.

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10th July 2013 – leaves

Posted on July 11, 2013 by Liz Terry

As the evening sunlight hits them, they begin to catch fire, like Icarus’ wings. They shed their green for the glowing orange, but their fall will not come until Autumn.

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