A year since lain in langour’s lap, cradled
in the receding arms of an Indian Summer,
incarnated in season’s departure.
Exultant, slipped deep
into the contours of a fiery landscape,
first breath of Autumn rough-brushed on lips,
blistering hips ripeplump on boughs.
Purple shadows of bruised fruit scattered
beneath October’s ochre lava,
sticky sap released to run glistening
down the deep-riven bark of parched elms.
This year only memories harvested,
faint echoes of a stillborn sadness,
stored in the larder to stave off the hunger
of Winter’s dearth.
But come Spring cold hands will plunge
into the darkness of a peaty earth,
chocolate-moist crumbly balm
to papery palms as they scrabble to plant
hope’s cherished raspberry-leaf embryos.
Nurture from the womb-like land and watch,
while succulent shoots sprout green and hungry,
reaching for the succour of a season re-birthed.