Autumn, 1989

The spiders web, hammocked low
between branches feathers slightly
at the first stirrings of Autumn
and a faint moisture hangs
in the air.

Pale light slants over the table,
slides diagonally along the floor,
spotlights the kitchen wall.
The low sun casts a soft halo
around your head – luminous is your hair.

Blackberries lie trampled underfoot
on the greening path border
and the dry brittle song of the robin
is drawn thinly through the air.
The wooden scent of poplar leaves
is fragrant, stirred up by the shuffling feet
of children in new school shoes.

Starlings start to gather into clouds
around Runcorn Bridge, careening drunkenly,
settling uneasily on parapets,
clinging like mussels
to rocks,
screaming, clicking and whistling,
jostling for space.
Slate blue and gold edged,
purpling are the clouds,
scudding tall galleon sails
ballooning on the horizon.