notes for a poem

Bonfire smoke mixes with drizzle.
From beyond the olive grove,
the stink of pigs rises defiant.

unidentified mushrooms in grass

The rain has brought mushrooms:
grey fleshy curves
like stepping stones across
the grass’s new-found green.

In addition, but less poetically: why are mushrooms, which come out after rain, shaped like umbrellas?

I got mild food-poisoning from mushrooms a few years ago and was ill for a week. I don’t known if it’s their pallor or their tendency to dissolve into a putrid slime, but even the perfectly normal ones now seem to be slightly menacing.

The ones that look like stepping stones have reminded me that many years ago I went on an outdoor pursuits holiday and one of the days there we went caving. Despite the river flowing from the cave entrance, we tried to keep our feet relatively dry by jumping between stones. On closer inspection, one of these turned out to be a dead sheep.

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

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