Here we offer space to local Warwickshire author Sally Harper, inspired to write this piece for us by a recent autumn walk.
So Autumn is upon us once more. Of course, the romantic ideal is one of crisp leaves of pumpkin orange and fireside red crunching blissfully under our feet as we merrily tramp through the countryside. Glossy magazines might try to resurrect the Scandinavian idea of Hygge – think chunky jumpers and soft thick blankets, huddled in front of a gently crackling fire, perhaps with a nice hot drink and/or a bowl of suitably wholesome and nourishing soup.
Ksenia Makagonova, Unsplash
But can we just be realistic for a moment? I’m not saying the run-up to Winter doesn’t offer us moments like this here in beautiful Warwickshire but it’s certainly not the everyday Autumn experience for most of us.
For starters, Autumn walks are often wet and muddy and yes, there may indeed be beautiful leaves but most have sludged themselves into slippery mini-death traps or worse, even harbour a hidden dog poo surprise. And no-one wants that, do they?
And then there’s the rain, as dreary and relentless as the grey clouds that issue it. It drizzles down upon us as we schlep about our dull daily duties – going to work, walking the dog/children, popping to the shop to buy pumpkins. As October hunkers down into the depths of November, all this results in a glorious carpet of mudge (the child of sludge and mud) that silently coats the ground, seasoned with gravel, dirt and, well, general bits that cling to the soles of our outdoor footwear.
But what actually are these bits that we wipe away on our doormats and stamp out onto the pavement? Where have they come from? Where are they going? And what do they want?
This poem takes a closer look at the experience of acquiring one of the aforementioned bits in my own boot whilst out walking in the aforementioned drizzle. A deeply personal and, at times, traumatising event that will probably resonate with many.
Boot Stone
You started your trip as ignorable grit,
Or so I thought.
Lifted from the football pitch
Via my child’s muddy boot.
Not really your fault,
I can see why you made your freedom bid
From her studs
To the hallway
To my own boot
Where you hid for half a mile
Sunken and cosy in the lining,
Beneath my sock,
Dormant.
And there you lurked,
Until the uphill march of my morning trudge
Dislodged you
Somewhere near the postbox
At the top of the lane.
Sudden pain.
Too far to return
Too sore to go on.
And then the rain.
Boot unzipped, mood soured, I swore
At the injustice of it all.
I lost balance and sock met puddle,
In rage I shook you out.
Barely visible
You must have flown to freedom
Landed on the pavement
To hitchhike further
Into other boots, shoes, sandals, wheels
To continue your journey.
Sally Harper
Cover Photo: Beth Rufener, Unsplash