The horses in the field whinny,
days are digressively shorter,
lawnmowers lie still, grasses mown
blackberries overripen,
and invasive wasps drunk on apples
drill their way to the rotten core.
We wait for the sky to fill with arrivals,
the ink, ink of pink footed geese,
and the sadness of swallows leaving,
the air more autumnal, the ground
still dry from the long hot summer
we thought would never end,
the summer heat intense, simmer
down, we say, when we see flags on poles
the Union Flag, and St George’s Cross
spreading like little wildfires everywhere.
Rachel Burns
