September’s done. The elevated sky
Burns blue like gas jets. And me and the dog,
Both dipped in ochre, go over the stubble
And along the edge of the wood,
Lamp-lit with hawthorn berries, blackberries,
And, by the fence, this one wild apple tree,
Well-fruited, strung with globes, which says
There was a house once, in under there
Among the snickering wings, among
The green maze.
After some time, a slow-rowing heron comes past
Filled with disdain for earthbound things,
Angling over the field to where the road
Dips to the ford, and the dog chases him
Along the ground and in and out of shadow.
These things of no significance are turned
By autumn’s sly approach to something else,
Arrival, maybe, or an assembly of light,
A bit like meaning, anyway.