Gnarled stump makes a face
gritting its teeth on barbed wire
that cages it in.

Monday dawns. Autumn
clouds struggle to awaken;
snuggle in as mist.

Blood red cabochon
pulses with life among beech
leaves’ rigor mortis.

Jack Frost’s Time Machine
ages countryside; fossils
coil in flooded fields.

Still morning, playful
salmon draw spirograph rings
on Loch Awe’s blank sheet.

Glen Lyon casts its
line for wriggling silver loch;
fishing for midnight.

Over islands thrown
like peevers on tarmac sea,
the sun plays hopscotch.

Snow bleeds from summits,
oozing drips of gore where they're
slashed by setting sun.