November

Glum, doleful moon, alone,
our only witness to such dreadful tragedy,
spies on deadly Scorpius,
chaperone to the winter’s chilling breath,
who, dragging slain Orion’s bloody cloak,
sweeps the crackling bronze crisped leaves,
like autumn’s janitor,
on this night all souls are blessed.

This bloody month, this killing time,
mischievous night, a fragile armistice
befalls us with our good clean ale
and hopper cakes,
astride our blinkered hobby horse
tonight, all are hallowed.

© Graham Sherwood

October

A grey dust bloom smears plump blue sloes,
fat rabbits and badgers sniff the damp and turn to go,
as nature’s balance rounds the leaves to russet gold,
so swallows, swifts and starlings gather to their fold.

Small children run and tease folk with their flickering punky flames,
now harvest’s in there’s time for apple-bobbing games,
the new wine, warm, tumultuous gurgles in the cask,
and newborn babies cry out loud as if to ask.

Wanes the opalescent milky cloudless afternoon,
ushering tired, marmalade sun to greet an early moon,
our tacky hands deep stained with blackberry blood,
we turn for home, with eager relish for our hedgerow food.

© Graham Sherwood