I saw a thousand pumpkins
upon a twilit field
Bright orange spheres
the rolling year’s
last offering revealed.
Remember days of parenthood?
At Halloween we clustered
round grimaced light
for tales of fright
while apples bobbed and blustered.
Now fragrant pies and tasty soup
serve parties down our lane
when autumn leaves
and woollen sleeves
wrap up the year again.
to call again
To Summer, the fragile three-feather head dress
is a reminder of a vision she once wore,
of a sparkling pool, a seed picnic strewn with friends,
and she a glorious Bird of Paradise.
But to Summer’s lover, as his autumn approaches,
that wretched flash of white feathers
is an imposition, a symbol of southward flight,
a triad of bright hopes waiting to be dashed –
the sky high damage potential of impermanent bliss.
On this dozing cosy cricket listening afternoon
first fire comforts soft summer bones
hot steaming apple licks our fingers
and spicy pie conversation draws close
to contemplate hibernation.
Squeezing lingering succulence from sun’s evening bloom
our ripe orange fruit falls fragrantly, dripping juice
licked in sinuous strings from stinging fingers.
Language of late summer bounty streaming between us
sipped ginger whets autumnal anticipation
whilst we reap sweet nectar, wild and stolen.