There’s bound to be a poem in this, this autumning
of August, this unsummering of the garden
and the sky that meant so much to the garden
when it was blue with all those birds, those birds
you’ve never seen before so take a double take for,
that leave you saying ‘look at that’ or nothing at all.
For now, although there’s drizzle, there’s colour,
there’s colour in the gardenered hedgerows—
all carefully arranged and clashless,
full of dinner-table-posey-able flowers—
and in each ungardenered, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it ditch,
gorse flowers preside, are their own kind of light.
And as sunlight, with all its little nostalgia,
touches, or has touched, for the last time
someone’s faraway field or scope of sea,
bookshelf, backyard, doorstep or bedroom wall,
so autumn comes like summer’s broken promise
and nothing lasts, again: not the ink in the pen,
not the bulb in the lamp, not the glass in the window,
not the sky in the sky, not the flower in the flower,
not even this rain we never asked for.