On mushroom hill

the ground is rich with promise

fertile all consuming,

through veins the pulse is carried

and the blossom of caps


tender, secretive with nightmares

of sweet languor,

butter wouldn't melt in our mouths

on mushroom hill.

This muted sun, the schism


of autumn bounty may be

the last you'll see

as sink down to mould

you surely must,


your perfectly rounded gob

filled with soil and worms.

We told you as much

but you wouldn't listen;


and soon you will be the rich fruit.

Such is the magic of mushroom hill.




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Sat 20th Apr 2019 16:20

Thanks for reading and liking Philip...

Hi David, even though your comment shows marks of levity, you put my thoughts pretty much into context. You know me enough to penetrate my psyche, so I won't labour on about the poem. This was a rewrite of one I discarded which was like a warning but I thought lacked atmosphere (or threat).

Steve, Hi and thanks for taking the trouble . I suppose poetry can be a little like trying on clothes - some don't quite fit or are the wrong colour etc. As long as you liked the idea I'm happy. As for the structure - it was written without a lot of thought to the form of it.
There may be reasons for your considerations of punctuation that had we the time might be resolved . Sadly, I won't be subjecting it to the pros who might tear it apart with their best intentions.


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