National Poetry Day

Autumn Park (The Year A Day Older)

Wasp browses grazes dozes around the ripe-burst plums.

Bloom-blushed skins split and weeping, sugars congealing around the edges of wounds.

Wasp visits the apples too, that lie bruised and unloved in knotted grass.

Schoolboy still in grey flannel shorts, pockets filled with fluff and electronic stuff.

Mine bulge too, with heavy comfort. Lumpy bumpy clumpy with collected talismans.

Conker smooth in my cupped palm, turn it once twice thrice, soothed to calm.

Long Tailed Tits ping from the cherry tree,

I squint-focus, count them as they fly, commas against the gauzy sky.

The greys have arrived and the trees flare against them,

As though trying to set fire to the rain.

Leaf-sparks launch themselves into the winds, swirling, snagging,

Into the hedgerows where they linger, smoulder,

Hops Hips haws, fire motes.

The year a day older.

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