The Coming

The first real autumn day,

Though leaves are stuck fast,

And noonday sun still prickles,

The shadows upright play

Upon receding lines of 

Now-hesitant grass,

Birds weave and duck

And pass in turn.

I stay, staring at agapanthus,

Their gangly heads,

Ready to lop,

And bracken ferns,

Hid amongst weeds,

Stretch at daylight-

At a cloud-quilted sky

Whose reach is everywhere.

Everything senses the turning,

Some for the fight,

Some merely to note,

Out of a sombre need,

The passing of light.