A SENSE OF LOSS

She prunes autumn from the shrubs,

Makes of it an uncertain geometry,
And a pile of bonfire brash.
Now earth-brown replaces stem-green,
And the garden takes on austere beauty.
Flutes and violins may do for summer,
But here oboe and viola
Set the tone.

Trees seem elaborate cages now
To trap the reluctant sun;
While the last wasps creep dangerously
Among fallen fruit.
I can sense warnings,
Hear the below-decibel buzzing.

Berry-bunches on the cluttered hedgerow
Lighten our November darkness;
This month of topaz and fireworks
And troubled moons.

With the wind turning arctic,

Shadows move in muffled coats;
Disembodied voices chant football slogans,
And the first frost orchestrates
Rhapsody in White.

(c) Michael Newman