Unpicked courgettes swell to a squamos ooze;
Spent vines cling to the outer edge of the cosmos
Bed, desperate to maintain a grip on summer.
By late September summer’s doings come undone.
A drift of falling leaves quickens the wood
And night tightens its grip on each rising sun.
For a day or two everything hangs in the balance:
A gold paper-rose establishes equal measure
To emptied-out beds and a pumpkin’s bright face,
While tangible darkness of damnation arrives
With the first grass frost, heightening track and tang of visiting fox:
And unseen, the hound of winter on its scent.
J.K. 22nd September 2016 ©