Anne Fotheringham

(All poems are copyright of Anne J. Fotheringham)

Progress?

Before Man’s footprints marked the soil

The wind moved silently across the grass . . .

Visitors from across the sea changed it all.

They called it progress. Was it?

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Progressfinalebook

 

Finding the Words: The Poet’s Path

My latest chapbook is available here free for download. In it, I trace the evolution of my journey from childhood to mature poet. I hope you enjoy it.

Download it now.

Finding the Words The Poet’s Path

 

 

The Geometry of Trees

By Anne J. Fotheringham

The geometry of tree defies all reason.

Triangles,

Squares,

Rectangles.

The tree ignores convention,

Sprouts branches as it chooses,

Creates fantastical shapes and drunken angles

Designed by a being

Drunk on nature’s bounty.

Gnarled and rough,

The tree rises sunwards,

Sprouting another branch

Whenever it feels it is right.

Or, I wonder does it follow a geometry

Fashioned by the trees

And their knowledge reaching back eons?

Do the angles exist

Only to benefit from the sun, wind, water,

Weather, light, dark;

Spawning leaves

To siphon the nutrients

And filter out the dross?

Or is everything done

By centuries-old roots

Feeding a symbiotic relationship,

Functioning in a cycle of years, days.

And why do the leaves fall?

Is it because of snow and cold?

Or is it because the trees

Need to flaunt their naked design,

Etched across gray skies,

To show how they too can build,

Have done it before,

Long before man caught the building bug.

They are better at it than us,

More creative.

The trees outside my window

Have moved into display mode,

Colours flashing at us as we pass

Saying “See us. Watch us.

Follow our lead.”

Winter will come too soon.

Put away summer finery,

Return to the basic geometry

Of your lives,

And maybe we will all survive the cold.

© Anne J. Fotheringham

 

 

Enchantment
There is something in these woods
That calls from ancient times,
Luring us onto lost paths
Into the darkness of the trees.
The leaves are denser here;
The shadows disappear;
The gloom becomes our daylight;
The birds have flown away.
Yet something, a presence,
Holds us in its thrall.
We stumble forward,
One foot before the other,
Roots grasping at our fee
As if the woods were alive.
Somehow we understand
It is the spirit of the forest, 
drawing us into its embrace.
Suddenly, a gnarled tree,
Moss laden and stooped,
Blocks our path
We stop, wondering, confused
Then the trees part,
As if a door had opened.
A light beckons.
We enter the realm of Faerie
In the depths of a forest glade.
© Anne J. Fotheringham