Terminus

Seed heads hold themselves ready

As the sky birds descend

Beaks gaping 

Upon the arched grass harvest.

The clouds of heaven turn from the north

And run in the westerlies' face

With ragged grey haste

To where the rain they carry must fall.

Trees leak life. 

Leaves curl brown at the edges

Until their colour stains the canopy 

And the space between

Where wind blows it bare.

Branches, sparrow-black with birds,

Bend under the weight of November.

The fruit of summer is torn

Flesh from seed

Until the ground is slick beneath them.

In this autumn's end,

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

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

The image is a composite based on withered wild raspberries and a crow flying over Dornoch beach.