Summer to autumn found poetry
The water butts are empty.
in the mornings early,
I open my eyes to look up and under the canopy.
On days when the sun inches above the slate roof
a side of the leaves are honeyed,
an amber warmth spreads
gradually changing to a lemon yellow.
And then by 7 o’clock
as I’m thinking about a first cup of tea.
the green wins.
There’s quite a buzz for this honey, but I’m not pollen your leg, there’s enough for everyone to hive what they want. After all those requests, there’s still six jars waiting in the wings. Just BACS or cash me, and the jars will bee yours.
No frosts yet outback.
Tomatoes still ripe enough
to drop onto the greenhouse floor.
Birch leaves clog up
sills and spouts.
At the now brimming water butt
I scrape leaf mould along edges with a
Nasturtiums trail down the wood store
flowering, flowering - best crop of the year.