Take a glass of August, to sip at harvest time
a vessel overflowing, with a stem of wilting vines
the final press and corking up of summers cheapest wine,
too sweet, too ripe, too seasoned, with the changing year’s decay,
overblown and blousy with the taste of yesterday

The waving wheat in Picot’s field
is burned to yellow sand,
a harvest tide of buttered rain
salutes the combine’s hand,
one last defiant gesture
before the cut and fall,
bowing at the reaper,
who comes to scythe us all

Ploughed fields and tractor churning
yarrow, nettle, stubble burning
signs of a year at summers turning
blackberry, bracken, meadow sweet
showing the season is almost complete
chiff-chaff, pipit, pecking crows
bring high summer to an early close

Fruit tree
did you never think of love,
perhaps you thought too much,
you stripped yourself of leaves to live
and gave of all you had to give,
naked and alone you tried,
so hard to stem that bitter tide
but still the darkness of you grew, inside
until you knew for certain that the war was lost
yet maybe in the doing it was somehow won
a pretty pity that you never found the sun
mellow warmth to melt the frost and make you free
to be the person you were always meant to be

Dip your poets brush in words
give me the east wind
the smell of snow beneath my feet
heavy yellow summer heat
splashing rain upon a roof
sketch me proof, or lies, or pain
draw me a sound I will not hear again
paint me a picture, for the things my eyes cannot see

Sunday papers and a sit in bed
nothing needs saying that hasn’t been said
we can read the thoughts in each other’s heads
you drink your coffee, and I sip my tea
who ever knew we could ever be
happy not speaking, just you and me

Green figs in a bowl
and a chequered cloth,
I breakfast on birdsong