harvest

no high stubble nowadays,
no tea time window smuts,
the flames long ago subsided,
we sometimes see hot air balloons.

the cutters low,
the following plough, so soon,
i am no longer properly in tune
with the seasons, or with you.

our agreement just began to fade,
slow as an old pulse,
or the old knees, resting an old tray.

how the special ones we love
will one day be taken away,
in the harvest, to a new place.

sometimes we cannot speak,
or say exactly what we feel,
our voices drowned by the passing wheels,
giant teeth, bright steel.

the sky is blue today,
brightness will not settle,
it moves away,
i hold my hands up to make it stay,
‘please, please do not go away’.

this is a lowly perch
at which i sit, the gulls are in the field
i watch them as they feed,
the heat of the year has disappeared,

the first frosts will be hot on its heels.

i am changing,
i found my old plimsol bag
with my old name in,

and it does no longer ring
with a memory of then,
or of anything.

i welcome the weeks that september brings
in triumph, over doubt, fear
and over everything.

harvest

uncleblack

Joined February 2010

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