Salute the sun, place it on hold,
fly with the last of the Meadow Brown,
drown Clouded Yellow in flower-filled gold
ignore the first leaves that tumble down,
grin at the cockerel’s comic struts,
coo with pigeons in copper beech trees,
shoo the squirrel stealing nuts,
drowse in the buzz of late summer bees;

wake to the warning of tractor tyres –
heed the dead leaves round the sycamore roots,
the swallows grouped on telegraph wires;
photograph roses, and twirling winged fruits,
greet the wind as it gathers speed:
there’s nothing so urgent as scattering seed.