Poem Of The Month: September

Hawthorn berries

Harvest

The fields are scraped and golden. As we pass
Hawthorn berries wave scarlet fingernails
And all around I see the death of this year’s grass.
Summer is guttering though some green prevails,
Except the bracken’s almost turning brown,
And seed heads are fuzz where once were flowers.
This was the sweetest summer season I have known,
Though every year I say this, it’s what endures.
The car window is open. The dog snuffs the air.
His nose drips with harvest, he quivers with lust,
His life in the present means he’s always there
Witnessing each thing from decay to dust.
And a shadow stalks each field and farm,
The ending from which each new year is born.