Now is the season of slow mists
that hang in hollows;
of silvered spiderwebs
strung from branch to branch
like tattered wedding veils;
A low golden sun
that flames the tips of leaves
on roadside bushes;
and lengthens shadows
across naked fields
It is a time of foraging;
of fingers, red stained
as bursting berries hanging heavy
on woodland brambles,
tumble through painted hands into plastic pots;
to scent the kitchen with childhood memories,
