the garden a soup of light and shadowthat disturbs blackbirds, robins
the berries already red and the seasonsout of kilter.
We have grown old here, watchingswallows migrate,
a hidden history in each certain swoop,waiting
for the droop of bluebells to smother groundswellunder trees.
In unvisited woods the cuckoo reports that springhas arrived
but there’s little hope of frog spawn with the pond drysummers
when soft rain refused to fall. How can we even speakof leaving
with the last of this year’s leaves yet to burn?