We have been here before, prodding at the
precipice of a new term. Dog days, the silly season, street corner boredom.
Elsewhere riots.
Hedgerows are ripening. Crow armies manoeuvre,
black on gold stubble. Thistledown drifts in stillness. Ragwort runs to seed.
Cycling back from the beach, flush with
swimming, wheels scrunch on old ballast. In failing light, thoughts scurry home
to not be caught out by rain.
A dredger returned, has disgorged its
scrapings. Bait diggers harvest the year’s lowest tides. The last, deep salty
draughts.
Evening settles in a blackbird chorus cut
through by whine of scooters. Bank Holiday sees the first rally of starlings.
Scratching at midge bites, feel the chill on
bare limbs. Reach for sweatshirts sooner. The death of a naturalist. Tucked
inside his cover, so long forgotten, your letter.
I am taken
aback at that courting gift, the insight of its guesswork. Old fence posts burn in our firepit, and we
are putting socks back on.
ii.2015
