Monday, 14 September 2015

Autumn Falling

I felt the first falling
Of autumn this morning.
The air's still mild,
But the wind's become wild
And capricious - stirring the trees
Into roaring seas;
Overwhelming waves of foliage.

The edges of sycamore leaves
Are fringed with mellow yellow rust;
Haws, like drops of spilt blood,
Have reached their deepest wounded red;
And sloes have matured to the colour of old bruises.
Spindle berries, shockingly pink,
Look lurid and licentious in the mild-mannered hedgerow -
Waiting to reveal their outrageous orange innards.

One solitary swallow, now,
Skims low over the grassland -
Trying to unmake a summer?
Late-leaver, last-chancer,
Looking lost in the vacant pasture,
Whilst an empty white bucket
Rolls around the field in circles
Like a plastic sheepdog
Without a flock
Driven by the incessant whistling of its master –
The wind.

I shelter by the broken stones of an old barn:
There amongst the rural ruins
Is the perfect place
To imagine summer slowly seeping away
And listen to the blowing-in of autumn.

1 comment:

  1. Love the last-chance swallow; and the bucket being sheep dog whistled around the field.