AT THE TURN OF THE SEASON

When sullen mother earth gives way
to ploughman’s cut, the sky entertains
circling seagulls looking for edible debris.
Minute animals scurry to find cover
over over-turned furrow, to a safe haven.
Cold winter’s horizon, overcasts grey clouds.
As leaves leave the trees to a skeleton frame.
Any enthusiastic gardener is clearing up his patch.
Planting bulbs to hatch next Spring.
The last ritual cut of lawn is thankfully done.
Cold and frost the feeling often felt.
Bird song not as lusty.
Hardly a starling comes.
We slow down.
Light the fire
and add on an extra jumper.