Sunday, 13 September 2015


 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,