October Song

Don't ask the beech tree why the season is
Rusting with the bracken in the marsh.
Let be the finches at their thistly feed.
The tired leaves drifting from the birch
Can have no inkling what the reason is,
Or why it is the thorniest bushes bleed
In red haw, hip and rowanberry weather,
When little patchwork quilts of gorse and heather
Fade in the glister of the spider's stitch.

Will this be the last day? Or this? Or this?
After this winter, will I see another?


Bird in Hand

The tiny wren perched on your hand
could be a key. Then
somewhere should be the door
that with a bird-shaped key-hole
cut by wind into stiff sand
...