A poem for a transition month. How small things and big things interact.
September
Stepping out from August isolation
the September sun is warm enough
to mask the coming storm.
The damp grass is ready to be mown,
a new blade slices clean and green
shards gather in the basket,
carrying the final scent of summer.
The engine throbs as, row by row,
the lawn is shaved.
A spider has built a web that stretches
from the barbecue to the wall. An insect
thrashes in the sticky cage as its captor
edges towards it.
The mower's noise causes the spider
to scurry, dancing along the threads
until hidden from view. Its meal
can wait.
The broken fence has held out
for another year. Battered, faded
brown, its strange dignity resists
the inevitable final fall.
Nettles grow beneath it, gloves
ripping to protect from their pinprick bite.
I feel the gathering wind, time
is running out and I too retreat,
sitting by the window to watch
the clouds fattening in the darkened sky. Tim Fellows 2020
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