Monday, 8 November 2010


Seed heads hold themselves ready
As the sky birds descend
Beaks gaping 
To devour the arched grass harvest.

The clouds of heaven turn from the north
Or run in the westerlies' face
With ragged grey haste
To where the rain they carry must fall.

Trees leak life from their leaves
Which curl brown at the edges
Until blood stains the canopy 
And the intervening space
Where wind blows it bare.

Branches, sparrow-black with birds,
Bend under the weight of November
And the fruit of summer is torn
Flesh from seed
Until the ground is slick beneath them.

Terminal season: this autumn,
Where near-death winter comes at last
To seal the fate of growth.

But the seeds that fall lie 
In the damp furrowed earth
Patient to the last.
© BH 2010

Something seasonal. Not meant to be bleak, really, more sober yet hopeful.