On Putting the Clocks Back

Autumn dragged its heels.
Summer – a non-starter
this year. In the end,
reluctant to leave,
at long last, headed back
behind the ridge.

Piebald tree-trunks
drift in shadows
with the smoke
from a far-distant bonfire...
Granny Smiths sob
inconsolably,
in the orchard
where they fell...

paint bleeds...
from blinded eyes
of beach-huts,
and in the shallows,
boats of red, and green,
list, aimlessly,
amongst the reeds
in their peignoirs
of silken-silver mist.

A hammock – full
of wet-walnuts, hangs,
heavy-hearted,
and the martins
in the eaves are flown,
and I wait for the sheep
to leave their cloven,
pearly tracks
in the morning frost.

Today, I saw swans
tilt towards the south.
Time was, I would have
longed to go with them,
to the other side of winter,
but now, I’m content
to remain...follow old,
trodden boundaries.

This hill, this pond,
this field, inspire me
near November – speak
with a million tongues;
I hear them coaxing down
the ochre leaves
in whispered vespers
of evening rain.