And then, suddenly, it was calm - the morning wind which threw

rain hard against the window panes and sent beech leaves rushing

across the grass to pile gold-brown against all that the borders grew,

all slowly dulling their greens to wet, muted browns, brushing

the soil as their leaves curl and droop - vibrant Spring-strength gone,

fading sadly.

                         The wind has also left yellow leaves - and larch spines -       

to cover the surface of the pond. Along with plump white rowan berries,

the dying leaves of the water lilies and the pondweed which entwines

daily cover the surface of the water: they are my Autumn adversaries

The water will not stay clear for long if I am not attentive.

It will freeze soon.

                                    Calm, but somehow the stillness - and the late-day

slow diming light - speaks more powerfully of the coming winter's tour

than did the heralding winds. It is still raining and hills, in shades of grey

are lost to cloud. Beyond the window beyond the field on the moor

are dull brown reeds and empty willows stretching to a far wood.

And a wisp of smoke.

                                         Despite rain, despite wind, despite the diming light

the birds stay busy at their feeders... despite each other... for each perch

is keenly held. It didn't take long for all to discover the larder's delight:

I am certain that when the sun lost its heat a few weeks back, in the birch

one bird was stationed ready - or overhead - to watch and trumpet

the news around the parish.

                                                        The moss-topped wall has gained maidenhair-like ferns:

their black stems glisten. There are still flowers in the garden: fuchsia and the like

but no butterfly still seek the buddleia's dark and dank brown panicles or turns

to the brash orange of the montbretia - each blooming head now lost to seeded spike!

The lady's mantle which once held a jewel drop in each leaf's heart

damply droops.