From windfall apples reel drunken wasps,
And a cat curls asleep in the border,
Coat rusty with age and lifted with purrs.
A hollyhock unfurls crimson skirts, and
A moth stutters like Morse code from flower to flower,
Discarding each daisy thrice visited.
White-bellied spiders teeter from leaf to stem,
Hurrying from the gardener's hand,
As it pauses, cuts,
And summer's magic collapses to the ground.
Oh yes BB - summer's magic is collapsing everywhere here - especially after that awful windy spell at the weekend.
ReplyDeleteI like the images your words conjure--other autumns, other gardens--the rich full smell of ripeness [just on the edge of fermentation in the case of the apples] and the company of cats as we go about the chores of setting the garden to rights before winter.
ReplyDeleteWhat lovely words,so evocative of Autumn in its glory and sadness.
ReplyDelete