Orange, Gold and Mahogany: a Corrie Poem

Golden rays stretch across the fields 
of rolled up hay.  Drive down a road
where the construction companies
have yet to touch the trees. The oak leaves change from green 
to orange, gold and mahogany, and the pines
remain evergreen. On such drives,
when you allow, the sun steals you
away to places where people say,
"shall" and "thine" and in a glade,
surrounded by willows and oaks,
sits a table with apples and sweet
potatoes. Fairies and fireflies dance
overhead as the russet leaves 
descend and twilight adorns
the tops of trees still, still
wearing the crowns before
the final release. For a 
moment, you believe 
you can fly.

Roll down the windows, and 
discover places where there is no
Internet. Return to the inner 
search of what makes golden days,
and where to find peace never
pleased in hashtags and typing rage.
If I see red and orange of the fire 
light, let it be on the roadside. When
the roads turn into rock and gravel,
I'd stop and watch wind blow 
the undersides of orange, gold and 
mahogany leaves. The wind seems
to never sweep branches of the
evergreens as, in winter, they
hold the weight of snow.

They say a battle happened here 
long ago before there was ever a
roadside or gravel, and men hid 
in valleys and crevices. They 
stayed behind rocks covered in
shades of orange, gold, and mahogany
until the time came to aim their guns
at the accursed enemy, and yet 
if you allow, the sun steals you away
to days of gold; the kind worth
more, but never bought nor
sold. The kind your 
grandmother
would read to you 
from a giant book about 
a forest fairy queen.

I almost smile in the sun, and 
believe it is a different time
when I made sweet 
potato souffle because she'd eat
it every day. On such a day,
I hear her chasing after
me, and say, "Mommae"
instead of "Mommy." 
I remember the gold in her curls
of mahogany, and how she 
despised sticking her 
marshmallows 
in the firelight
for too long. 

On the golden days, when the rays
reach my skin, I almost stop and
take a picture on the roadside.
But I drive on past the trees and
daydreams.  I almost smile until
the moment when I recall my
fairy queen flew away into 
the twilight. 

By R.A. Bridges 

All poetry and words copyrighted by R.T. Dickinson, 2022