IN TOUCH

When August tints and chills to autumn,

I notice how you cling to your clothes at nightfall,

complain that drafty spaces multiply in bed.

 

But look at the misty golden edge

round evenings closing in, vapours curling up

in hollow places. Remember fire nights,

the primal hiss and crackle, how embers shift and wink.

Be glad to batten down against a threat

that summons the snail in you, backing away and in

to womb, cradle, a first room’s embrace.

 

My fingers sift again through crumbled red earth

after roots and spuds have done their work,

lie stacked and clamped. I sniff the final

burning of a year’s husks and straws,

walk from its passing blaze and smoke into

your warmth, at ease with my autumnal need

to cover a space that makes me shiver.