And so it begins. Or ends

The seasons change and as

September dies lies forgotten

Like Summer, Autumn October

 

Rears. Not misty mellow fruitfullness

With rusty leaf colour bright splashing

Hedgerow and tree russet yellow brown,

Mists that turn to rain and wind and heavy

 

Rain splashing in the track ruts and puddles

Around the farm;  every field soggy with all the

Weighted sound of it;  gateway mud carried into

The yard on tractor tyres as field drains run and fill

 

Ditches that have nowhere to flow but a bordering bog

Where sphagnum mosses and reeds between the willow

Trees hide dark deep pools that reflect nothing of the lead

Grey sky in their rain spattered black mirrors; their surfaces -

 

Dirtied with beech leaves, larch spikes and rowan berries from

The near wood where only mist blue blackthorn and the brighter

Hedgerow hawthorn berries are left for birds - mask ancient secrets

Long held. And as the rain softens to a drizzling mist that hides the old

 

Dark distant moorland, sheep cough as they feed off old pastureland that

Reed and thistle, blocked drain and rain has robbed of nutrition, slow heading to

The shelter of a shed hard by my cottage, so from my window I see, over them, over

The mist bound bog, a small blue sky spot of hope above the potter's cottage and far hills.