High on a ridge we lie in the sun
And gaze out over the fields below.
In one of them, the flames have begun
To plough through the stubble. It will glow
Long into the night, controlled burning
Preparing the ground for a new seeding.
The leaves on the trees are already turning,
Their colours red and brown and bleeding,
And there, behind the smell of smoke,
The smell of winter.

And I think how in our lives we fail
To burn the stubble, ashamed to let
Go, ashamed to let common sense prevail
And rid us of harvests soaked and wet.
All too often we do not allow
The new seeds room to breathe. We feed
On bad or failed harvests. And yet how
Can we be sure with letting go our need
To hold on, we will manage to escape
The smell of winter.