Breath of Autumn
August draws its conclusions;
last long weekend
promising fine.
The moon is full reflective,
the mountain ash bright-berried,
reminds me of going back to school
no more.
Conkers hang green
not yet battle-ready. Drumsticks
suspended, silent in the common lime. Helicopters
spin from sycamores. Drifts
of thistle and rosebay willow herb
tell fuzzy tales of
cold days ahead and white beards;
wild raspberries suited up in red.
The wind breathes in and out the wood
quiet, deep, in,
then out with percussion
a compressed musical meditation
on the season
and drying
each year
lessons us
on dying.
Instrumental Spring
In the stillness of the garden
listen to the flowering tree.
A thousand bees
an instrument
of hum.
