578 - Our Autumn

the fields are now rolled up in bales.
pasture is getting mossy underfoot.
windows in the sky move on like quail -
vanish when they are caught up with - or put

down from flight. gaps in the traffic open
onto worlds we have lost and give up
for dead. this land’s sleep will not be broken
till the north turns head-on and sun corrupts

the heavy night again. the stars confess
they too are nothing. the breeze is lukewarm
as it whispers of the cloud layer’s stress
above. insects die - go back to their dorms

as the case may be - while we face the dark
on Earth - headlights on - and double-parked.

Woodford Halse
11 September 2021