The season turns

a racket in the tall cypress
splits the sweep of its upper limbs
a ragged etching of graffiti
like a crown of thorns

a squall of crows squabbles
for a lodging on the bough
feathers ruffled by a blast of wind
flutter in a ragging breeze

the chain saw and the digger
leave their tracks of scarred earth
fences felled and soil turned over
by an intruding harvest storm

the path below is strewn
with a shake of sweet chestnut
blown along in rolls like wooly baubles
prickly green burst-open chestnut red
the vines stretched low with grapes
the ripening a ‘johnny come lately’
of Indian summer set a-trembling
at the shock of the bird scarer

the chestnut sprawl beneath my tread
lies amiss beneath the tall spruce
like cuckoo debris driven to the wrong place
by an indifferent tenant wind

I step over the hoard gingerly
in orange pumps reminder
of the summer almost gone
ablaze in the sodden grass

dragonflies on the bridge
prance in their final hours
the fishermen count the days
before the storm of autumn

and summer soon will be all gone


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