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?
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 –
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