Poem of the week 08


Clive Sansom


The year slows down. The swallows go,

Leaving our valley far below

Floating in mist. Nests in the eaves

Are empty, the gutters choked with leaves.

There are berries on the bryony,

The hawthorn and the rowan-tree;

The squirrel now forgets to swing,

The fieldmouse stops his scampering,

Searching in every hole and rut

For beechmast, acorn, hazelnut.

Even the butterflies are slow

In their brown wanderings to and fro …

And later, frosts will come, to take

The rings and ripples from the lake

And lend her, as those wrinkles pass,

The smooth transparency of glass.