on looking through dawn’s window
in the jigsaw verity of this low morning
the cobwebs spindle to the blackbirds wing
and a lone geranium’s stance at autumn’s end is
a barley-eyed tear nasal backing a throat
the long screwed shadows of plumbed time
and never once did the sun rise over the hedges
all the while the cat and i are watching the birds
scrape their breakfast from the stone worms
highest patted the double cream clouds move
in the slowest churn of lateness warming
to the task of a day’s yearning that when
diamond drawn the scabbard daggers pierce the dew
on every twist of a corkscrew hazel’s done
barely a leaf left clinging to the very idea
that summer might overturn the last vote of leaves
but of course its done and dusted blown
and yellowing browning mouldering
with my thoughts upon a blinking at
the steam of a coffee hanging urgent
i arise from my long repose with the weasel sun
blinded white every vestige of languid comfort
the games afoot the sea calls long and low
it’s time to go boy
it’s time to go