Through the year month by month

Relaxing warmth and summer glow,
we’ve watched the fields and hedgerows grow,
and now it all has reached a peak
– contentedly replete and sleek.

And yet in places all’s a tangle,
as weeds compete the paths to strangle
– deceptive nettles soft, and bramble
snakes out, scratching as we ramble.

Ripening corn in days of heat,
foxgloves rise, and meadowsweet
– creamy froth, and nuts pale green
bunched on hazel trees are seen.

August

The flower harvest of the spring
is past, now combines reap, to bring
the gold seed in that’s multiplied,
and multitudes are well supplied.

The greenery’s tired, its springtime flush
has dulled, the lengthening surge and rush
of plants that shot up thin and tall
has slowed, they wither, soon to fall.

The birds’ songs hushed, nest duties ceased,
some moult, but all exploit the feast.
We soak the warmth of sunshine rays   
between the showers: school holidays.

September

Crisp, dewy morning,
glittering webs festoon
and decorate the hedgerows;

shortening days, but often
a dazzling afternoon –
watch weary children drag
homeward, morning’s sweatshirt,
stuffed in schoolwork bag;

swallows, martins skim around
– last long feast, before
the journey massive, southward bound,
withdrawing from this scene
of cooling, wilting – tinging
autumn hues emerging;
rowan berries brightly glow,
crane flies flutter, fluster, blunder;

tractors, trailers trundle
down the lanes, the traffic slow:
potatoes scooped from under earth
(crisp packets soon to fill?),
apple orchards yield their worth
for bowl or pie or cider mill.

October

The green now recalled,
the flowers have fled,
their finery faded
– a shroud for the dead.

Each sleepy day shorter
– the daylight flies –
sooner and sooner
it closes its eyes.

Prepared for the winter
prepared for the spring,
food stored, so that future
new growth can begin.

As frosts crisp leaf litter,
and trees’ hues ignite,
sun melts mist of morning,
and the colours blaze bright.

Toadstools appear,
on lawns, in the mulch,
the ground getting soggier,
our boots squish and squelch,

How precious a home,
a haven that’s warm
as winter creeps nearer,
with ice, wind and storm.

November

Between the summer lushness
and the sleep of winter’s starkness
the disarray and scruffiness,
the dirtyness and greyness
of November
weighs heavily upon a mood that’s sinking
for the warmth and sunlight’s shrinking,
but low and watery sun breaks
through the muffling mists
or heavy skies that glower,
and russet hedges glow,
and here and there there shines
an out-of-season flower.
Fresh and breezy air invigorates,
and as autumnal colours turn to mud
decaying, making food that will do good
to trees from which they came,
and give some winter warmth and shelter
to insects through the coming cold
we’re glad we can return to cosy homes,
with glow of artificial lights
to brighten up the daylight dull,    
and lengthy nights.

December

Tired land, waiting
– waiting for its life to grow
again,
waiting for the snow
to clothe, and warm, transform;

silhouettes of sere trees on evening sky
– some graceful, symmetrical,
some tangled, meandering twigs –
all beautiful
raw-boned shapes held high aloft,
and lower down bright cushions velvety
of mosses, saturated, soft;
trunks with algal wash
of burnt orange rust
or bright green dust
smeared on with gentle brush,
fluffy greyish lichen tassel decorations,
and twig growth in contortions,
fungal distortions
– ‘witches broom’,
squirrels’ dreys exposed,
old nests disclosed
and mistletoe orbs festoon;

metabolism resting, waiting
for the spring,

– like wise men, parched and longing
waited for the coming of the Saving King
new Life and love to bring.