Deep under autumn, ten

spadefuls down I found him,

the red king: bloody


with iron and ochre, his head

split from the spade's heel

snatching at frost


and sugarfine leaves;

his afterlife blazed

and crackled under my boots.


I dragged him, wrinkle

by wrinkle, year by

pocked year – into the air


where he stood splaying

his gifts of flints and torcs

over the garden's rucked,


leafless squares, where I left him

turning to the wind's hum,

into the crow-flight and rain.

© Meirion Jordan