The farmer's ploughed the field
while I was away;
the sheep are gone,
all now flat and brown;
mole hills and electric fence
dismantled,but they'll all be back,
you see, the moles that is.......
some of the lambs for Christmas.
What will he sow so late?
the fifteen acre is pale green,
sown a month ago,
wheat for next year's harvest
no doubt he'll sow wheat again;
our summer walks no more
until the aftermath returns
with clover,vetch and rye
mole hills,pheasant squawks
crows in pairs tugging at the worms
starlings in their thousands.
The woodland in recession now
moulds and toad stools
feasting on the leaves,
smells of peat and autumn rain
bracket fungus in the bark
plump and yellow in the evening sun.
The pace has changed,the hour goes back
daylight paler soon to be dark at five;
the undergrowth more open now
bracken long since brown,
fern fronds bow to evening frost;
open sky and silhouette branches.
Fourth act of the play that we call Year.
We have watched...
sometimes climbed the stage
rehearsed our lines,sometimes forgot,
applauded and complained,enjoyed the theatre
laughed and cried..... sometimes terrified.
Days are shorter 'til December.
When it rains clean out the barn
lean the bar do those things
for which you had no time
when walking in the sun.