&

Black fur, black feathers, 
Beached on the autumn-coloured sand,
Flashing lights of infinite ampersands.
The question, fateful, is whether 
To step into the lights or step back 
Into the black fur of grief which 
I have been curled up in these three years. 
Words words words black as a cat. 
I just saw you in the periphery of 
Manet’s Olympia — or maybe Cézanne’s — 
Black fur, black feathers,
The light was never white —
Synaesthetic in its rapid electric bass —
The light was never white 
But every Basquiat-stroke shade between,
And I am beached on this autumn-coloured sand,
A flashing light of infinite ampersands
Like iambs: and & and & and &

England’s Autumn

Moss rolling down a hill like elephant dung.
An island in the storm on the horizon 
Like elephant dung. A never-setting sun, 
Molten made mud, like elephant dung. 
Still, like elephant dung. The pillars of grief 
Pile like elephant dung, building buildings.
The tears of a mother, roll like elephant 
Dung, muddy down mourning cheeks. Mud
From Nature’s groaning stomach, aching belly,
Thrown up into hills, mud brick by mud brick:
Caer Caradoc, Helvellyn, Blencathra,
Skiddaw, Snowdon, rise like elephant dung
Covered in England’s green which covers the
Crusting, wrinkled hides of beasts beneath
In fecund feckless spring. Covered in England’s 
Autumn, golden leafed, like elephant dung,
All is auburn’d in the urn’s wreaths. All 
Is now gone to earth like elephant dung.

Elliot Ruff, originally from Shrewsbury, is currently a student at Manchester Metropolitan University. He combines his passion for language with his love for art, often inspiring visual and ekphrastic poems, and previously worked at Wordsworth Grasmere, deepening his connection to its literary heritage and the landscape of the Lakes.