Caleb Simon
When autumn comes, it rips
through the horizon, stripping
the trees of their medals.
The sky is blinding.
It’s not fly-tipping, you decide,
to peel off your skin
and leave it by the stream.
At least the crows talk to you,
drop metacarpals and can tabs at your feet.
You offer salted nuts in return.
Scooping up loose dirt, you can see
‘I’m sorry’ spelled out in conkers.
Brush off the sycamore seeds
clinging to the hem of your trousers.
Try every way to say it that
does not include saying the actual words.
Try to say it and realise
that the words are stuck
in your throat,
in the train tracks,
in your favourite spot in the woods.
Caleb Simon is a poet and maths student who can be found skulking about at open mics in Bath or empty fields in Worcestershire (depending on the time of year). He is on Twitter/Instagram at @csimonstuff
andotherpoems.com 